Hells of Iron
by Gwedhiel
Summary: *canonical gap-filler* Tolkien left a huge gap after Fëanor died. What happened to Maedhros in Angband after he was captured? What became of the Noldor and Maglor as their newly appointed ruler and of them abandoning Maedhros? Behold the missing tale. (also feat.: Celegorm, Caranthir, Curufín, Amrod, Amras, some Sindar, plenty of Noldor, and many others)
1. Fírië i Noldóran

**Summary:** *canonical gap-filler* Tolkien left a huge gap after Fëanor died. What happened to Maedhros in Angband after he was captured? What became of the Noldor and Maglor as their newly appointed ruler and of them abandoning Maedhros? Behold the missing tale.

 **Disclaimer:** I own nothing of Tolkien's world. I wish I did, but it all belongs to the Tolkien Estate. I make no profit from these ventures of delving into the Master's legendarium, but I do own the uploaded "book cover" for this particular story (well, 95% of it. I cropped a basic outline of a hand from Google Images, but everything else was me).

 **A/N:** Updates will be on Thursdays (please go to my profile for an update on this matter, as of July 2016). Normally I include A/N at the beginning or end of each chapter, primarily to thank any reviewers of the previous chapter, but for the sake of the continuity of this story, there will be no A/N on my part anywhere in the story unless absolutely necessary. Any and all reviews will still be replied to, of course, and any reviews given are much appreciated. Thank you in advance for reading. And now until the end, I bid farewell!

 **Warning:** There is no content of any sexual nature to warrant a Rated M, but the story will most definitely progress to a hard T in multiple chapters, but I will not forewarn it in advance due to not wanting to spoil the chapters demanding it. For any who have difficulty handling graphical descriptions or a graphic narrative, you have been warned.

* * *

Name Index: at this early point in time, it's irrational to attest that the Quenya form of Noldorin names were already provided their Sindarin rendition. At the time of Maedhros' captivity, the Sindar had yet to socially interact with the Exilic Noldor to the point of Sindarin adaptation, and the Noldor still have yet to learn Sindarin. Below are the provided Quenya renditions of their Sindarin names.

Fëanáro = Fëanor  
Maitimo/Nelyo = Maedhros (Nelyo being the abbreviation of his father-name, Nelyafinwë)  
Makalaurë = Maglor  
Tyelkormo = Celegorm  
Curufinwë = Curufín  
Moringotto = Morgoth  
**any abbreviations of father-names serve as the hypocoristic form of address, from _The Shibboleth of Fëanor_ PM.352

* * *

 **Chapter 1:  
Fírië i Noldóran**

Ash.

Maitimo's eyes widened as he stared at the soft dust, the numbness coursing through him causing his mouth to slack open and his hands to still completely. The fine powdery substance fell like snow through his fingers where he had been grasping Fëanáro's body just moments before. He distantly heard his brothers' exclamations of shock around him, nothing but a garble of words to his ears and he could make out nothing of what they or anyone else shouted. Not that he tried. He may as well have been frozen, and only when his lungs burned with the need for air did he will himself to breathe again.

Ash. His hands took on a perceptible tremble, and not a minor one. They shook, becoming caked as the ash continued to matt in the blood coating his fingers. The trembling spread to the rest of his body, but Maitimo could not rip his eyes away from where his father's dying form, now dead, had just lain, where now rested an elongated mound of ash that gradually blew into the air from bursts of harsh wind. His father…what was this? His father's body –

"Nelyo!"

The frantic shout of his name was like a strike to the face and his eyes flew up, finding himself faced with Makalaurë who stood above him on the other side of Fëanáro's corpse – no. Not corpse. Whatever had become of the slain body, because there was now no body in sight. Just ash. All ash, and why ash? What had just happened?

"Nelyo, please!"

Maitimo realized his eyes had fallen to again stare at the mound he was kneeling in and he returned them up to Makalaurë's distraught face. His brother was close to hyperventilating, his dark hair askew and whipping savagely around his neck in the violent wind. But his eyes…their bright grey were smothered in a despair beyond the power of words, and the utter perplexity breaking through the dismay in his expression mirrored Maitimo's own at what they had just witnessed. The shock gradually receding from his mind, Maitimo finally made sense of Makalaurë's shouts and realized that his brother must have been attempting to garner his attention for some time now.

Eru above….

Maitimo inhaled a gulp of air, his hands tightening into fists, but there was nothing but ash for him to grip. He looked around him, at his brothers, at the scores of Elves of the massive host of Noldor that had encircled them to offer some small mote of protection after Fëanáro's final command to halt. But now even they were immobilized, swords and spears drawn and held at the ready, but many of their gazes had turned inward at the transformation of their king's body. A deafening silence fell over the scorched steppe, for even his brothers' and any others' cries and murmurings had died down to nothing.

His brothers. Maitimo turned his attention to the six of them, feeling as though he were underwater: any sounds were a muted distortion and his mind felt abnormally slow. Their faces swam, their expressions contorted with varying emotions so profound that they could not suppress them, but all sharing that dismay that only seemed to grow more real the more the reality set in of what had just happened.

"Nelyo."

The beseeching whisper forced his attention to the fore again and he looked up. "Makalaurë –"

Makalaurë nodded quickly, appearing to barely hold himself together. "Lord brother, we have to leave. We have to leave now. They are coming!"

Maitimo nodded, forcing himself to his feet and paying no heed to how his frame shook. He could feel the countless eyes focused on him as he lifted his head. "Vëantur!" he called, and he was relieved to hear his voice remain steady, even as his heart seemed to palpitate out of control. The Commander was nearby, stepping in from the ranks congregated around the mound of ash, the brilliant armor they donned coldly reflecting the scarce stars that managed to break through the overhead clouds and brewing gales. Tall and lean and with hair askew of dark hue, Vëantur gave a halfhearted bow to Maitimo. Maitimo could see the weariness in his frame for all that his eyes remained hard and bright, though sprinkled with horror and shock all too real. His armor, exquisitely crafted of fine steel, was splattered with blood, particularly over the breastplate. His sword was drawn, the thrust lowered, and the blade matted with black blood.

"Highness," Vëantur answered.

"Take the vanguard," Maitimo said, his voice sounding abnormally loud among the silence. "We make for the Grey Fields, with all the haste we can muster. The Enemy horde comes and by their foul speech on the winds they are not far." He looked west at the mountains, at the upward path to pass over them that lay not a league away, barely visible in the dreary dark. "Mayhap we will lose their chase within Ehtelë Sirion, but send runners of the swiftest foot on ahead to warn the encampment. We may have to migrate from the Lake if we fail to lose them in the mountains."

Vëantur bowed again, and in spite of the cold face he bore Maitimo could see the relief in his eyes at being given an order to follow, given anything to do. "Hanyan, aranya," he heeded, and Maitimo inwardly started at the title, the wave of surprise that overcame him nearly paralyzing him where he stood at the very real revelation of what the death of Fëanáro meant for him as his firstborn. The Commander donned his helm and turned to the Minyahossë, the First Company, and began relaying orders. The spell that had fallen over them was broken as warriors began to stir.

"Prince Tyelkormo!" Maitimo went on, turning to his fair brother. Though Tyelkormo did not look so fair now, appearing as frozen as Maitimo felt. At his name he turned his daunted gaze to Maitimo, who forced himself not to react to the sight of his little brother in such pain. He could not. "Go among the Pilindossë and Ehtyari and send a score of archer units to the rearguard," he said, naming the two companies of the army comprised of the best archers and spearmen. "They are not to engage the Enemy. No one is," he emphasized, turning a hardened gaze on the surrounding Elves. "But should our foes of any ilk reach us while crossing the mountains, the units need to keep them at bay. We cannot afford to have them follow us unto the Lake."

A silence followed the command, a cross between disbelieving and confused. Tyelkormo raised an eyebrow, the faint traces of incredulity breaking through his bleak expression. "We will not fight them?"

Maitimo frowned, suppressing a flare of frustration. "So long as those demons of fire are among them we cannot!" The words came out harsher than intended, but it worked in silencing any protest, from Tyelkormo or anyone else. "We know not their make nor from whence they come, and I will not go to discover what other banes Moringotto would unleash on us if provoked. We lost the upper hand and must now adapt, and to endeavor to do so this day will cost us more lives than we have already lost." Maitimo knew as well as every Noldo listening that he just spoke the greatest understatement he could have voiced. They had lost far more than just a few lives and Maitimo could read the uncertainty in every gaze, the doubt of being able to recover from this fatal blow dealt to the Host. But he could not stop to reflect, to think. If he did, he genuinely feared drowning in it. "We march!" he bellowed across the field. "Gather up your arms and move to formation. I would fain reach the mountain pass ere the Enemy has us in their sight!"

The sharp command incited them into action and they moved swiftly with purpose, if stiffly, while orders were delivered to the warriors by captains and commanders. And his brothers, but he could not look at them. Not now. While the clatter of weapons and shields and swift feet pounded around him, Maitimo looked down at his feet where rested the bright armor of his father and the ashes it lay in. Ashes that continued to gradually blow away in the surges of wind. He could faintly hear Tyelkormo issuing instructions to those under his command in his powerful baritone, the Quenya falling rapidly from his tongue. Further orders issued from his other brothers, from the commanders of the five Companies, but the shouted words all blurred together to coalesce into a barrage of chaos in his head and Maitimo had to shut them out. Just only for a moment.

Makalaurë had not moved from where he still stood opposite him, but Maitimo did not dare look at him either.

He crouched, unknowing as to whether to avoid touching the ash or to gather all of it up. His chest tightened and he clenched his jaw, shoving away the thoughts the ash impelled. His father's sword was sheathed, half buried in the dust, and Maitimo took up the blade. Ash fell from the scabbard as he lifted it and some remained in the crevices of the intricate carvings in the hilt's hardened leather, but he did not blow it away. This ash…it was no ash to be blown off an object as common dust.

"Makalaurë." He spoke the name so softly that it almost went unheard even to his own ears, but his brother kneeled immediately. Maitimo lifted his head, looking into his eyes but somehow managing to avoid them all the same. "Take up his armor," he quietly bid, his voice slightly quivering. Even he could hear it. "Have the twins take up his helm and shield, and take no protestation from them. We need to move and quickly."

Makalaurë furrowed his brow at the mention of protestations, but understanding dawned in his eyes as silence met his unspoken question. He stared at Maitimo, his fair face contorted and eyes darkened with too many raw emotions. Strands of his dark hair continued to slip from his braids to be tossed carelessly in the wind, across his scratched face. But for all the understanding in his stare, he still looked at Maitimo in disbelief, his gaze pleading.

"Nelyo," he breathed, but Maitimo shook his head, feeling his heart twist. He knew what vicious indecision was waging war inside Makalaurë.

There would be no burial, and Maitimo felt suffocated by the weight of what it all meant. But in this matter he really was powerless.

There was nothing to bury.

"I know," he whispered bitterly. His face hardened. "Rise up, Makalaurë, and be swift. I would not dishonor our sire with failure to act now."

Makalaurë gave a stiff nod and began to gather the pieces of armor together, calling for the twins to help him with short words. Maitimo stood and moved away as they came, turning his focus onto the activity around him. And he looked east, narrowed eyes spying out the horrid sight of those three peaking towers that pierced up into the dark gales riding low over them. On the air he could smell the Orcish stench and could hear their rancorous march across the plains. He failed to see any distant glimpses of fire that would signify whether those fiery demons creatures with them, but there was no reason why they would not. They were marching west, as swiftly as Orcs might go. Simple as that.

They needed to fly across the mountains now.

Quickly enough they were moving, hastened on by the knowledge that the horde of the Enemy moving up on them came with creatures of a terror beyond Elven gen. Maitimo was tempted to send out scouts to figure out how many the horde numbered, to determine what beasts exactly they might be made to face in the mountains if the rocky range failed to deter the fiends. But they could not spare the time, not for the scouts to make their careful flight across the land and not for them to adapt to whatever information the scouts might bring back. The sooner they reached the Ehtelë Sirion Pass the greater the chance was they would cross to the other side unmolested, and so would not be forced to move their encampment along with the nissi and children who waited there for their neri to return. The remaining league passed under their feet far faster than the first time and Maitimo began issuing new orders to coordinate entering the mouth of the mountain pass. Anything to avoid a bottleneck.

"Prince Maitimo!"

The din of noise was clamorous, but Maitimo only just caught the call from where he marched behind the vanguard. He turned, impatiently brushing away loose hair that whipped in his face, and he spotted Tyelkormo hurrying through the ranks, gracefully weaving in and out of the regiments of the Tatyahossë and Nelyahossë, the second and third Companies. Maitimo raised a hand in acknowledgment and waited, gesturing those Elves nearest to him to keep moving. Tyelkormo slowed down as he approached, looking flustered but still breathing steadily. But there was an anxious light in his eyes that made Maitimo stiffen, his mind already formulating strategies in face of the worst scenario he might hear.

"My lord brother," he said in a slightly upraised voice. Even then, the storm and clamor of Elves still nearly drowned him out. A mighty bow and quiver were secured at his back, arrow fletchings peeking over his shoulder, and he gestured behind him, leading Maitimo's eyes over the multitude of warriors that streamed over the rock-strewn terrain that sloped downward from where they stood. "We need your insight on what the Enemy does. Both with Curufinwë and now Makalaurë I have discussed it and both bid me to seek you out."

Maitimo frowned, looking back out at the plains stretching to the horizon, but the dark obscured them too much. "And what does the Enemy do?"

Tyelkormo opened his mouth but hesitated, looking from Maitimo to the plain and back again. He shook his head with a sigh. "I cannot guess, Nelyo. Alcarion and Coromindo were the unit furthest along the rearguard. They reported being unable to spy Moringotto's horde, and nor could I, but they directed my attention in the distance where only three Orcs march. I could see no others and they looked to be carrying a banner, though it is a banner uncouth and foul as one could ever be. They must have run at high speed to gain ground on us. But they are careful to stay beyond the reach of the archers' arrows, yet press on to follow us nonetheless."

Maitimo's frown deepened. "Only three?"

Tyelkormo nodded, shifting his stance as he was inadvertently jostled by a passing Elf. "Yes. I can see no others, but I know you can sense their foulness in the earth not far off, just made obscure by the cover of darkness. I would send scouts to discern their whereabouts in truth, but I fear this may be some ruse and so I would have your counsel first."

Maitimo looked again out to the scorched plains that disappeared into the dark, only the silhouette of those three towering mountains marking their end. "What says Makalaurë? Did he look himself?"

Tyelkormo shook his head, a nigh indiscernible cringe passing over his expression. "All I tell you I told to him, and he said to seek you out."

Maitimo lifted an eyebrow at the wince. "And?"

Tyelkormo's face was unreadable. "He believes they mean to surrender."

Maitimo stared at him, eyes suddenly sharpening upon his brother as a whole manner of incredulity shone out from them.

They meant to what?

* * *

Amrod and Amras: I consider both of the twins alive during the First Age, rejecting Tolkien's last minute postulation that Amrod died in the burning of the ships as presented in "The Shibboleth of Fëanor" due to C. Tolkien's hesitance and confusion on the matter of it ever occurring, and primarily because they were both alive in the published version of the Silmarillion. Likewise, they will therefore share the same mother-name.

 _Fírië i Noldóran_ : Death of the King [of the Noldor]  
Ehtelë Sirion: Quenya for Eithel Sirion  
 _Hanyan, aranya_ : "I understand, my king."  
Minyahossë: first-troop  
Tatyahossë: second-troop  
Nelyahossë: third-troop  
Pilindossë: archer-troop  
Ehtyari: spearmen  
Nissi (s. nís)/Neri (s. nér): Quenya equivalent of Sindarin ellith (s. elleth)/ellyn (s. ellon)


	2. The Enemy's Terms

Name Index:  
Turko = Celegorm, abbr. of his father-name Turkafinwë  
Carnistir = Caranthir, his mother-name  
Ambarussa = Amrod and Amras, their mother-name  
Nelyafinwë = Maedhros, his father-name

* * *

 **Chapter 2:  
The Enemy's Terms**

Maitimo thought about the situation for only a moment.

In the tense silence that followed Tyelkormo's report, Maitimo wasted none of the precious time they had left and decisively began relaying his orders. In short time, he had runners weaving through the Noldohossë with all haste, though with less grace than his brother had managed, carrying his summons to the Commanders of the Companies and to his brothers. He also sent a runner to the rearguard to fetch the unit that had spotted these three Orcs. While waiting he turned to Tyelkormo, who had remained a silent sentinel the whole time, and gestured for him to follow. Together they hiked their way to an outcrop in the mountains not too far away. It was difficult to traverse the slope, the unstable ground making them slip and the multitude of Noldor were still moving to filter through the Pass' mouth did not help. Those Elves always deferred to them, but it remained difficult nonetheless, both coming close to spraining an ankle more than once.

But they made it to the crag and breathed deeply when coming to a standstill along its edge. They were not elevated above the host of warriors to their right, but they were removed well enough as to not hinder said Elves' progress. The King's Guard had followed them and now took up positions along the mountainside while Aráto, their Captain, stood at the ready a respectful distance away, but still near enough should Maitimo summon him. He regarded the Noldo dispassionately as the Captain took up his position. Maitimo could only imagine what must surely be plaguing him at the death of Fëanáro, the one person he was bidden to guard the life of. Since their flight across the lands, Aráto had refused to allow Maitimo to leave his line of sight even for a moment. And the rest of the King's Guard numbering two dozen had been just as adamant in their diligence to protect the Heir of their fallen Noldóran, as though such extra vigilance that bordered on the obsessive was some self-penance they were paying for failing in their sole duty to their king.

Maitimo would have to speak to them about that, he realized. But for now he allowed them to indulge in their guilt. This new fervency of theirs did not hurt, in any case, even if it was born of shame. If it fueled their concentration on protecting him and his brothers and gave them some sense of purpose, he would let them be for now.

"What will we do, Nelyo?" The quiet murmur caught his attention and Maitimo turned to Tyelkormo in mild surprise at the bleakness of his voice. But then Tyelkormo looked at him and Maitimo could see the despair and beginnings of panic swimming in his bright eyes, his fair face haunted. He was starting to unravel, Maitimo realized. His little brother, so steadfast and booming with might, was looking at him with an expression that Maitimo had not seen since that catastrophic night in Formenos before they flew from it with all haste for Valmar. Plagued by the inaction of waiting on this crag, Tyelkormo's mind was given no distraction, no order to focus on, and now the reality of all that had happened was catching up to him. Or so he assumed.

"What will we do?" he asked again, his lips barely moving with the whisper and Maitimo clasped his shoulder, silent at first. He looked Tyelkormo up and down, observing how he stood there; unmoving, hair being tossed carelessly in the wind, broad shoulders back and hand on the pommel of his sword. But Maitimo knew that the confident posture was nothing but a front for the sake of those warriors who might look at them and he briefly felt a swell of pride for Tyelkormo, even as he felt his heart ache at the remorse all too plain in his face.

"Do not fail me now, Turko," he murmured just as quietly. "I will plague your mind with a thousand and one tasks if need be, but do not fail our sire now."

Tyelkormo stared at him for a long moment, giving a stiff nod before looking away, and Maitimo watched as his brother donned a cold face. He could practically sense the struggle coursing through his brother to subdue all the inner turmoil.

Maitimo said nothing, opting instead to watch the hundreds of Noldor that continued to move but were now being made to slow at the inevitable clogging that came with trying to squeeze through the mouth of the pass. Maitimo could faintly hear the fresh spring water of the Ehtelë Sirion just further south from their position and, unless they shifted north, there was no other place to lead his people except back the way they came. This was the only viable pass of the mountains for leagues in either direction according to the Mithrim, and Maitimo hoped with desperate might that the Enemy was, in fact, truly not approaching them.

He nearly voiced his concerns to Tyelkormo but was grateful to see those he summoned begin to arrive and, bidding them to wait just a while longer, he helped those who had been further along the host to climb atop the crag. Littered with moss and wild sprouts of weeds, the outcropping was crowded with all of them gathered there, but not so much that any were in danger of falling off its ledge. Vëantur of the Minyahossë, Yánadur of the Tatyahossë and Sornion of the Nelyahossë. Tyelkormo had High-command of the Pilindossë and Ehtyari and so represented them, though one Captain from each was present. Maitimo looked among the faces of his six brothers and the Commanders of the five Companies before looking beyond them to one of his Guard.

"Captain Aráto, come forth!" he called to the Elf. He may as well be privy to their impending discussion.

Aráto came and Maitimo quickly apprised them of the Enemy's move and held up a hand to forestall the questions he could see poised on their lips. He turned to the archer unit and saw them imperceptibly straighten under his sharp regard. "You saw only three?"

"Aye, Prince Maitimo," said the one who identified himself as Alcarion, who also appeared slightly nervous to be standing in the midst of so many highly ranked Noldor, if the way his eyes flitted quickly between them all was any indication. Neither he nor Coromindo were arrayed in armor, but resilient leathers hardened by heat. Both were dark-haired and bore a short sword at their hips, though only Coromindo carried a shield, along with a sturdy spear that was pitted into the ground next to his foot, the broad spearhead glinting coldly in the night. Alcarion carried a great yew-bow, though less great than Tyelkormo's own bow fashioned from _tauriyavani_ of Oromë's Halls, and though the Noldo held it at the ready by his side, no arrow was nocked. "Only three. We took position furthest along the rear and only sighted them amid a breaking of starlight through the clouds. Had Coromindo not been looking in their direction when came the brief light we would have missed them completely. Whether the Enemy hides in their wake we could not discern, for we both looked far beyond the three but could see none of Moringotto's horde. We shared the thought to scout abroad but sought out Prince Tyelkormo first."

"I was apprised by Curufinwë and went to look myself while Tyelkormo sought you out," Carnistir added before Maitimo could reply. "By all appearances, Moringotto seems to have withdrawn his horde. If the Enemy chases us as they have been across the steppes, it is by some dark wizardry they are now veiled from us."

Maitimo was quiet, frowning in contemplation, though inwardly he was as bewildered as the rest of them appeared to be. He turned to Makalaurë. "Why believe you this to be an act of surrendering?"

Makalaurë frowned, giving a halfhearted shrug with a slight sigh. "Whether they mean to surrender or not, I cannot guess. But only three of them?" he said doubtfully, a tad incredulous. "Bearing a banner, or what sounds like a banner, and remaining out of the reach of our arrows. What else could it be?"

"The idea of the Enemy surrendering at this time is preposterous," Vëantur interjected somewhat hotly, and his dark eyes were bitter. "They have the upper hand and they know it. Their triumph over us is ripe for the taking, so much so that we are fleeing from the sound of the Orcs' cadence, and now they throw it away? Preposterous, I say."

"Yet, what else may it be, Commander?" Curufinwë challenged, though not impolitely. His eyes were shining bright with consideration, and the smooth intonation of his voice bespoke of his mind spinning away with theories and possible conclusions based on the limited knowledge they had. That look of passive yet fierce concentration on his face was so uncannily familiar that Maitimo could not deny how much it hurt to have to now look at his face that mirrored that of their father's so unerringly. "I agree that it is foolish to believe they surrender, for their victory is indeed nigh if they would but take it and trap us in the mountains. But I also agree with Makalaurë in naming this move of the Enemy to be suspicious." He looked to Maitimo, eyebrows slightly drawn together. "I know not what to make of this, my lord brother. For all it looks to be surrender, the Orcs would not – _could not_ be so stupid, and certainly not Moringotto."

"Do they mean to offer terms, then?" Yánadur suggested, though skeptically. "With the three of them acting as an embassy?"

"They have little room to offer terms to us," Carnistir growled darkly. "Moringotto forfeited any right to such a covenant long ago."

"They are presently the blade at our throats, Carnistir," Makalaurë reminded him somberly. "They can do whatever they want and we could no more stop them than we can remove this wretched cover of darkness from the sky."

"It matters not," Maitimo stated, his tone decisive. "We have no time to waste for a debate over whether to meet them. They number only three and I seek only to learn if this really is some ruse. I will go and hear what they would say if it means they will stop following us. Even though they number three and with weapons sheathed, I would sooner go and slay them myself before allowing them to learn the ways of this mountain pass, let alone lay sight upon the encampment."

"And can we not choose that course anyway?" Tyelkormo asked, absently fingering his bow. "If the Enemy has truly retreated, let us kill those wayward beasts and proceed onward unto the Lake. The sooner we regroup and come together to devise a new plan, the better."

Though no one made their agreement vocal, Maitimo could see many of the others' approval of the suggestion shining bright in their eyes. "It is tempting," he conceded with a humorless grin. "But no. If they truly are an embassy, killing them without provocation will be gladly construed by Moringotto as a further act of war, I wager. I will meet them, but I want the Noldohossë to keep moving. With me will go Vëantur, Tyelkormo, and Curufinwë. Vëantur," he bid, "go and gather twelve warriors trusted for their vigilance. Though the horde of Moringotto looks to be long gone, I will not indulge the illusion if their purpose is to simply lure us in, so be wise in whom you choose. We will congregate at the rear, so go with haste."

Vëantur bowed. "As you command." Then he was off, rushing down the crag and then weaving through the countless warriors who had now been slowed to a near stop, orders falling from his lips that were loud enough to be heard over the thundering wind and clamor of marching Elves.

"Makalaurë." His brother stepped forward and Maitimo clasped his arm as he gestured towards the pass with the other. "Lead the people in my stead until our return. See that every Elf enters the mountains but have them halt at the fissure, the one we took our rest in during the first crossing. But if you hear us blow three times on our trumpets, lead them onwards again to the Lake and do not stop until you arrive. Yánadur and Sornion," he called, turning to the Elves, and the tall Noldor both bowed their heads in acknowledgment. "Go you with Lord Makalaurë and heed his command. No, Sornion," he added as the beginnings of protest entered his Second's face. "I know you would rather be with me, but not for this hour. Go with Makalaurë. It will be difficult for all of our people to pass through the mouth at the speed needed, so conceive of some method among yourselves and the Captains on how to accomplish this. At least so they might move a little faster."

Both Makalaurë and Sornion nodded in understanding, though the latter was visibly reluctant. But Makalaurë was hardly any better. "Though I can ensure little, we will do our best," Makalaurë said with a nod, and he grasped Maitimo's forearm in a brief squeeze before moving to join the two Commanders.

But Yánadur was frowning. "Should I not go with you, my prince? If those Orcs do purpose to talk with you, you will need my aid in the speaking, for I would guess their fluency in the Moriquendi's language to be pitiful at best."

But Maitimo was already shaking his head. "That is their problem, not mine. They come to us and must know we need only draw our arrows against them for them to die. Your command of Mithrimin is greater than mine, true, but should our discourse be impeded by a speech barrier, my own command of Mithrimin is good enough to convey the risk to their heads should they continue following in our wake. Besides," he added with a glance towards his fourth brother, "Curufinwë is going with me, and his knowledge is nigh on par with yours of the Moriquendi tongue, even if none of us is near conversant in it. It is the reason he goes with me." He glanced again at Curufinwë, who was slowly nodding.

"Speaking with them will prove difficult," Curufinwë agreed. "Not the least because their fluency in this speech must be as poor as ours, if not poorer. But mayhap this hindrance will delay whatever their purpose is and grant our people more time to pass into the mountains."

Maitimo lifted an eyebrow. He had not considered that.

"All the more reason to do this, then," Carnistir muttered after a thoughtful silence, crossing his arms. His eyes narrowed as they turned to focus on Maitimo. "Even if nothing comes of this, feigning to treat with them will win back the time we are losing to see our people into the safety of the mountains."

"So it is decided," Maitimo said, and he was glad to see the others who had shown doubt looking more resolute, and there were nods of approval all around. He nodded at Makalaurë and the two remaining Commanders. "Unless you have further counsel, go now." With bows of their own they departed without a word, Makalaurë speaking rapidly to the both of them as the traversed the haphazard mountainside. Maitimo watched them go for a moment before turning to the hunter at heart of his siblings. "Tyelkormo, I want four units to accompany us, at the ready to shoot. Alcarion and Coromindo will be one of them, so be swift and meet me at the rear." Tyelkormo gave a short nod and departed at a run, beckoning the unit and the two Captains to follow.

Maitimo barely spared them a glance. "Ambarussa, Carnistir." He looked into their questioning eyes and could not help but notice how the twins in particular seemed desperate to be given any task. "Take point among the Pilindossë and Ehtyari. I want every Elf inside the mountains and perimeter guards sent out. Look for our coming in an hour. If we do not show take counsel with Makalaurë and send out scouts ahead of you in your search for us."

Carnistir met his gaze with a hard one of his own. "Why would you not show?" he contended harshly.

Maitimo relented, lessening his cold stature as a look of unfathomable grief briefly passed through his eyes, and he reached out with a gentle hand to grip Carnistir's clenched jaw. "I am taking no chances," he said softly. "Not anymore. We can ill afford to. That is all. Besides," he added with a feeble attempt at a smile, "you know Tyelkormo. He would unleash a tempest of rage before letting a hair on my head be touched."

Curufinwë made a face at him. "As would I," he contested.

Maitimo felt a genuine smile upturn the corners of his lips as he nodded. "Him too." Whatever smile was there faded. "This time is crucial to ensure the survival of our people," he impressed under his breath, looking between Carnistir and the twins. "Do not fail me, dearest brothers."

Carnistir's expression was still dark with displeasure, but he grudgingly nodded in acquiescence and Maitimo released his face. "You know we will not, so stay your tongue from such nonsense," he groused, and Maitimo felt a swell of affection at the attitude. Carnistir gestured to the twins and they set off right on his heels, all three bursting into a run once clear of the crag.

Maitimo turned his gaze on the only remaining Elf not of his blood and gestured him forward. "Aráto, gather a handful of your guards and head to the rear, and assign the remaining guards to the protection of my brothers. And should my brothers contest that the guards should be with me, send with them the message of my command. I will hear no protestation. Be quick, now."

The Captain bowed and began issuing his orders, and those of the King's Guard ranged about them hurried from their positions to obey.

Maitimo turned to a silent Curufinwë and met his eyes. He reached out to sweep back strands of glossy hair that had escaped their clasp, though the wind saw that it was tousled even further. "Let us go."

O = O = O

The troop numbering thirty moved across the steppe, nearly gliding from going unhindered of hundreds of other bodies moving with them. And though they moved with haste, their vigilance could not have been higher. The three princes marched at the center, those of the King's Guard encircling them in a loose formation primarily at the forefront. Vëantur walked alongside Aráto ahead of the princes, and the twelve warriors he selected were arranged in a similar formation around the cluster of the King's Guard. Three of the archer units escorted the somewhat feigned delegation, one at the fore and one on either side, while the fourth took point and acted as forward scouts, remaining fifty paces ahead. Despite the utter dark of the night, where not even starlight managed to break through the malevolent gales, no torch or any source of light was borne among them, par Maitimo's orders. It made their traveling across the flat land slower, but Maitimo was adamant not to light their way.

"I will not grant them the courtesy of forewarning them of our coming when they will not do the same," he had said when questioned. "As it is, any light we might bear would hinder our sighting of them until we are within arrow's reach, and we know not if one of them is an archer." And so it was decided.

All the warriors bore sword and shield and though the shields were hefted, the swords remained sheathed, no matter how many hands clearly itched to draw them. A standard-bearer walked alongside Curufinwë to Maitimo's left, the emblem of the House of Fëanáro woven in thread of bright silver upon a banner of deep cobalt, and all were arrayed in armor and helm, though the ornate make of vambraces and breastplates and hauberks were still caked in harsh splatters of Orc-blood from their last battle. The archer units were a different matter. An archer unit consisted of two Elves and though both carried a short sword, it was not their primary weapon. One Elf was an archer from the Pilindossë and the other an accompanying spearman from the Ehtyari. Mutually supporting each other, they proved to be a deadly combination in battling Orcs and other foul beasts they had seen but not yet named, able to cut down large numbers of the Enemy at a distance, then retreat before the Enemy could retaliate, and all the while the spearman defended the archer from attack. It had been a tactic devised by Tyelkormo and the praise their father had dealt him for his ingenuity was still well earned, as far as Maitimo was concerned.

"Princes, the forward unit comes!"

Maitimo looked over the heads of those in front him, narrowing his eyes to peer into the distance and he spotted Alcarion and Coromindo, who Maitimo had chosen as the scouts since they would recognize the form of the Orcs more quickly than the others. The archer and spearman were running towards them and were near indiscernible to the eye, clad in their dark leathers as they were.

Maitimo lifted a hand and the company slowed to a halt, Vëantur and Aráto allowing the unit entrance into the ring of guards. Neither was winded, but their eyes shone with a fell light. They both bowed their heads towards the princes, lightly raising bow and spear in a salute and Alcarion, apparently the spokesman of the two, spoke to Maitimo in a voice loud enough to be heard even by the Elf furthest away.

"It is as we had last seen," he said. "Three Orcs, carrying some foul standard, about two hundred paces ahead now. There is still no sign of the Enemy mayhap being elsewhere."

Maitimo considered that with an absent twisting of his jaw and nodded towards Vëantur. "Stand in formation."

Vëantur returned the nod and left his post, repeating the order in a commanding bellow, though it was rather unnecessary. The Elves were already moving in the prearranged plan. Tyelkormo stood at Maitimo's right and Curufinwë to his left, who had the standard-bearer on his other side. The ring of guards opened up and withdrew until Maitimo stood at the fore and arranged themselves behind and alongside the princes. No weapons were drawn, but every warrior still loosened their sword in its scabbard, even Maitimo. The archers from the four units, however, were a different matter. Two stood on both sides of Maitimo, spaced out along the front row of Noldor, but their arrows were drawn and nocked, though pointed to the ground. The four of them stood at the ready, awaiting Maitimo's command to shoot should he issue it.

Maitimo knew that any person with one eye would say he was unreasonable or overly enthusiastic in the number of Elves he brought with just for meeting with three Orcs when said Orcs could be slayed by only one warrior or two with a quick hand. But Maitimo could not care less. Even though he would grant this embassy leave to speak, these beasts would be fortunate not to die tonight, which he presumed would happen anyway before all was finished. The Orcs generally seemed eager to incite the Elves to fight by whatever means, and after the death of their king, Maitimo knew every Elf behind him was longing to draw his weapon.

This embassy of Orcs soon came into sight and Maitimo frowned as he tried to make out this banner they were evidently bearing. He saw something, some crass device standing in the air, but his attention was soon diverted by the three Orcs and Maitimo absently reflected that these creatures would probably never grow less hideous to the eye.

The Noldor waited in heavy silence as the Orcs drew closer and Maitimo saw that they indeed bore no bow among them, much to his slight relief. The Orc to the left was the standard-bearer, clasping in two iron-shod fists a smooth shaft of what appeared to be a two-tonged fork of compressed iron, stretching a ghastly banner across it, a banner made of a material Maitimo was leery to guess. The other two Orcs walked free, though sword and axe were strapped to their monstrous bodies. He remained silent until they were but a mere dozen paces away and nodded to Vëantur without removing his eyes from them.

The Commander held up a forestalling hand. "Halt!" he called out in his authoritative baritone. Maitimo briefly reflected that he really needed to find and assign a new herald, for his father's own had perished in the battle.

The three beasts stopped and the four archers in the company half-drew their bows in warning, though they kept them lowered. Two of the Orcs growled deep from their barrel chests, but the middle one….Maitimo frowned, his gaze now focusing sharply on the Orc who stood quietly in between the other two.

"Do you feel that?" Curufinwë whispered, and Maitimo knew what he meant, unable to suppress a shiver. But he did not answer, knowing that his brother's murmur had been rhetorical, if anything, for he wagered that not one Noldo in their company did not feel the unsettling pall of some fey wizardry that overcame them. Like some smothering of raw darkness at the close proximity of the Orcs. No, he realized with a growing sense of apprehension. Not all three, just the one who led them in the middle. Disconcerted, Maitimo's brow slightly furrowed, his chest tightening from some dark premonition he was unable to dismiss.

Something was not right.

An uncomfortable silence reigned across the steppe, Orc and Elf staring at each other. It lasted only awhile before the middle Orc lifted his head, his sallow eyes passing leisurely over one Elf to the next until they landed on Maitimo himself.

"Are you Nelyafinwë, Noldóran uncrowned?" he called, his voice grating to the ears.

Maitimo felt his heart stop as a wave of unadulterated shock washed over him, momentarily robbing him of his breath. The Orc had spoken in Quenya. _Quenya!_ Not the fragmented Mithrimin they had expected, but Quenya! Though it was horrible to hear their language be twisted and befouled on the abhorrent tongue of one of Moringotto's abominations, let alone his own name, the words fell from the Orc's lips clearly and with a fluency that bespoke of his confidence in his mastery of the Elven dialect, as though it were his mother tongue as much as it was to the Noldor who were now regarding him with no little apprehension.

 _How was it he could speak Quenya?_

Maitimo was thrown by it. Completely thrown, but he was now more certain than ever that they were talking with no mere Orc of the same ilk as those they had been battling since their crossing into Hísilómë, for all that the beast looked like one. And yet, with the suspicion of deception now firmly taking root in his mind, Maitimo began to grow aware not of the similarities between this Orc and the two flanking him, but of the differences. Imperceptibly there, but so telling.

The Orc-speaker was clad in the same crude armor that looked to have been molded with haste and little care from blackened iron: a breastplate engraved with an insignia he could not make out in the dark, a cruel conical helm and greaves bent of the same material, an unsheathed sword at his hip and feet shod in iron. And the very form of his body was as ghastly to the eyes as any beast of the Enemy.

But that was almost where all the similarities ended.

The Orc was considerably broader and taller than the two accompanying him, standing straight while the other two hunched. Standing unerringly still while the other two shifted on their feet as though fighting against the instinct to lunge for Elven throats. The un-Orcish calmness of his breathing while the other two persisted with their harsh grating of displeasure in near outright growls and snorts. And, Maitimo now recalled, the Orc-speaker had approached them so light of foot with composure unbecoming of any Dark creature while the other two had marched with a disgraceful clamor as all Orcs did. But more than anything, while the two other Orcs practically breathed all the evil to be imbued in a creature, the Orc-speaker radiated some tangible dark necromancy without trying. It was what they had all immediately sensed, what Curufinwë had commented on.

A Maia?

The thought startled him, but he grew more certain of it with every passing moment, though his heart pounded faster at the sudden intuition. Though not accounted as old by wont of the Eldalië, Maitimo knew he himself was aged and far from young, and so long had he lived among the Maiar dwelling in Valinor that he immediately recognized the signature corona of energy and scents that all Maiar seemed to inadvertently walk with, or at least whenever they had clad themselves in the likeness of the Amaneldi. An energy he knew he could pinpoint even if half delirious, even drunk. And though he went without a scent, this Orc-speaker emitted that same energy, only darker. Much darker.

And then there was the fact that the horde of Moringotto had halted and even reversed their chase of the Noldohossë while they had been desperately trying to carry Fëanáro away as he was dying. Though Maitimo had yet to cease wondering since Tyelkormo's report why the Enemy had appeared to withdraw when their victory was so close at hand, he was now forced to consider just _how_ the horde had been ordered to retreat when Moringotto was not even among them. How, unless there had been a Maia among them to receive the order, even if disguised in the form of an Orc? Replicating their corporeal image, yet not even acting like one? To have such a command of Quenya? A Maia, whom Maitimo knew the Valar could fling their thoughts to in the blink of an eye and thus bypass the impediment of distance that Elves had to contend with. All the observations supported the theory, Maitimo finally concluded with a dreary sense of cataclysm. For if this Orc-speaker truly was a Maia…just how many more Maiar did Moringotto command? Did he have more than this one at his beck and call? Every Vala in the West each had a numberless host of his own People. A Vala like them, why would Moringotto have been any different before his Fall?

They had never considered this.

All these thoughts flew through Maitimo's mind in the space of two breaths, but he let not one morsel of them be seen in his face, which he kept impassive and cold as he regarded the supposed Orc.

"You know I am he," he answered. "Speak if it is your purpose."

The Orc-speaker's face was just as unreadable, not even contorted with the anger and hatred that seemed an inherent part of every Orc. "There are three of your sire's get with copper hair and I was bidden by my lord to speak with Nelyafinwë."

"And you are, so speak."

The Orc-speaker did not react, though his granite voice grew more rotten. "To you my Master says: Long fought I against my Brethren ere your Awakening and learnt we all became on when a battle was of victory or of defeat. My design is above petty Noldorin grudge and thus do I tire of your unsought obstinacy. My war is not with you, and this once will I offer terms if it means your departure from my demesne."

Maitimo stared at him. "Really." The tone of his voice conveyed just what he thought of the message.

The Orc-speaker went on as though he had not said the one word. "In spite of every Orc you have slain, I will allow you free passage from the land, and all will go unmolested. Your king has fallen, so go and grieve as is your wont, but be swift in taking your leave. As a token of my sincerity, I will surrender freely one Silmaril, and let that convey the magnitude of my desire to see you gone. Though heed well my warning, Son of Fëanáro, for should you come to the place appointed with the expectancy of receiving two of the Jewels or all three, you will receive none. If it means you will leave my doorstep, I will give you without quarrel only one."

Silence.

In that moment, Maitimo could not have spoken even if he attempted to. As it was, he did not dare look at his brothers on either side of him, or behind to all the other Elves in their company. He did not need to. No one spoke, and the air was charged with the sense of wary anticipation. Maitimo could feel it and so hard now was his heart pounding that it was a wonder no one heard it. The Orc-speaker looked at them with a glimmer of expectancy visible in his diaphanous eyes, as though awaiting a response. Maitimo certainly had a floodgate of words ready to unleash on the Orc-speaker, but in the end he remained silent and bore a face of cold disinterest, knowing he would not, could not, show even a morsel of the thoughts flying through his head. Any response on his part, be it verbally or even the most miniscule shift in his expression, would undoubtedly be reported back to Moringotto. And if this Orc-speaker was truly a Maia, he was more than capable of recalling the smallest detail.

"So ends my Master's words," the Orc-speaker went on after the pregnant pause and Maitimo's own silence. "I am not bidden to return to him an answer, but if to these terms you agree, my Master says he will await you through a servant of his choosing upon a steppe equidistant from Thangorodrim of his Dwelling unto the wall of mountains behind you, at sixteen leagues northeast from here. With the servant will be the Silmaril and in honor of the covenant my Master tells he will send only a score with his servant to bear witness to the exchange on his behalf."

Maitimo raised an eyebrow. "A score of what?"

A ghost of a smirk twisted the Orc-speaker's face, but it disappeared all too quickly. "Only Orcs, Your Highness, though I would it be otherwise. But," he added, the dark undertone of his voice growing, "my Master made it clear unto me that if you break the terms of this parley and do not depart forthwith from his demesne, he will see personally that your war with him becomes war in truth and bears you bitter fruit tenfold."

And much to Maitimo's surprise, the Orc-speaker bowed to Maitimo, though the flippancy and pure mockery of it could not be more obvious. "Five days my Master gives you to arrive at the place appointed. If you do not show, he says he will accept your absence as a declaration of war in full."

And the Orc-speaker turned about not a breath later, walking away, the accompanying pair of Orcs scrambling behind his speedy gate, growling out whatever speech they communicated with. The thirty Noldor stood there unmoving, watching what was now revealed to be an embassy in truth depart without a glance back. The silence was deafening, the words of the message from Moringotto tumbling endlessly in Maitimo's mind until all the words blurred together. And that added with the many crippling shocks and travesties of this day cast Maitimo's whole being into a downward spiral until he did not know what to even think.

"That Orc was a Maia."

Maitimo's eyes snapped over to Curufinwë at the confident declaration, but the softly spoken words seemed to break whatever spell had fallen over the company and the many Noldor began to stir, breaking from formation as they visibly relaxed.

Tyelkormo replied to Curufinwë's statement before Maitimo could, making a wry face at him. "Well spotted," he said cynically, "but I believe we have a greater concern to address."

Maitimo turned his gaze back to the empty plain, watching the Orc embassy grow smaller to his sight as they melded with the darkness. He took a deep breath, clenching his jaw. "You are both correct."

* * *

Boldogs: "the name of a kind of creature: the Orc-formed Maiar, only less formidable than the Balrogs./Morgoth had many servants, the oldest and most potent of whom were immortal, belonging indeed in their beginning to the Maiar; and these evil spirits like their Master could take on visible forms. Those whose business it was to direct Orcs often took Orkish shapes, though they were greater and more terrible." [HoME _Myths Transformed_ X.418]

Note on Geography: In regard to lays of the land for this story, Karen Wynn Fonstad's _The Atlas of Middle-earth, Revised Edition_ was consulted for accuracy on geographical minutiae.

Noldohossë: the host (army) of the Noldor  
Noldóran: King of the Noldor  
 _Tauriyavani_ : Osage Orange trees; from Latin _madura pomifera_ ; "yellowwood trees and shrubs", "fruit-bearing"; in Quenya _tauri_ \- and _yavan_ (pl. _yavani_ )  
Mithrimin: Quenya for lit. "language of the Mithrim". _Sindar/in_ is a Quenya word ( _Sendrim_ in Sindarin), a word that was only established after the Noldor interacted with the Mithrim and a name the Sindar were dubbed by the Noldor, one that the Sindar did not refer to themselves as.  
Hísilómë: Hithlum  
Amaneldi: Elves of Aman/Valinor


	3. The Debate

Name Index:  
Pityafinwë = Amrod, his father-name  
Telufinwë = Amras, his father-name

* * *

 **Chapter 3:  
The Debate**

"I do not trust it!"

Maitimo sighed, running a hand roughly over his eyes. "So you have said, Carnistir."

They had returned to the Noldohossë, all of whom had gathered and temporarily settled in the fissure of the mountains that Makalaurë had somehow managed to direct them to. Maitimo had been quick to praise his brother along with Yánadur and Sornion in somehow successfully coordinating the Elves into the mountain pass when so little time had been available to do it. The mountains stood fairly high in height, though laughably short when measured alongside the towering peaks visible in the East or the snowcapped heights of the Pelóri, nevermind Oiolossë. But regardless of their height, the mountain range still stretched a league wide at its narrowest point, which was the Ehtelë Sirion Pass that they now trekked, and it could easily take two days to traverse and descend into the land basin westward. And so the Noldohossë that consisted of hundreds of people settled in the fissure located two hours of hiking inward from the east ingress of the pass.

They had discovered the fissure when first crossing the mountains to hunt the Orcs who fled after the failure of Moringotto's assault. During the ten days the battle had lasted, Fëanáro had looked upon the fissure and its proximity to the springs of Ehtelë Sirion with a flash of insight and deemed it a good place of rest when making the harrying journey across the mountains. Meager supplies had been gradually transferred to the fissure and concealed, primarily for the comforts of slumber and utensils to prepare game hunted in the vicinity. Though minuscule when compared to the entirety of the mountains, the fissure was still vast in retrospect. It was as though the mountains upon their formation had neglected to grow new summits and ridges in this area and was left imperfect with a considerable gap at half the height of the crests. A gap wide enough as to not feel suffocated by the walls of woodland mountains on either side and long enough that the area was able to provide substantial resting grounds for a host of people as large as they. The fissure was not big enough to house them all, but dozens of pockets opened up into the cliffs and crags, and crowds of Noldor divided themselves among those vales that were judged safe.

And so here they were, bidden to rest and regain their strength and wits. Armor was removed and cleaned, hunters sent out while others made their way to the springs of Ehtelë Sirion to fetch water, campfires were lit, and makeshift beddings were fashioned from the fallen ferns. And the many Elves waited, whether for food to be prepared or for exhaustion to force their bodies into slumber, some setting themselves up with even the littlest or inane of tasks if it meant their minds would be kept distracted.

Meanwhile, Maitimo reflected sourly, he and those he summoned were far from any opportunity to obtain rest. He had removed those he called to council to one of the pockets situated higher up in the mountain range. The forested crags protected them from the buffeting of wind, fortunately, but there was little else of benefit in this particular vale save for privacy. Present were his six brothers, along with Commanders Vëantur, Yánadur, and Sornion. Captain Aráto stood at the entrance of the rock-strewn grove and Master Fionildo, head of the healers among the Noldohossë, stood inconspicuously to the side with a mild look of discomfort upon his worn face, his eyes shifting uneasily from one Elf to another as though sensing his particular presence was not necessarily required. But he uttered no protest, even if he did look like he wanted to curl up inside his cloak.

Maitimo had bidden all of them to doff their armor so that they might have a reprieve from the cumbersome weight after days of wearing it. No one disarmed himself, however, for even the Master Healer bore a dirk on his hip, no matter the clear reluctance in his face to do so. They took their ease, or what ease they were able to obtain in light of the discussion, sitting or standing at a lean against random boulders of varying heights. Maitimo was observing the eleven Elves in silence, his face unreadable as his fingers absently fiddled with a sprig of a snag of roots that had grown sideways between two rocks.

"Moringotto plays us for a fool," Curufinwë bit out with a dark scowl, long fingers idly drumming on the hilt of his sword, a habit that Maitimo knew he had inherited from their father that they both did when anxious but attempting to veil it behind a mask of indignation or indifference. "By the very words of that Orc person, Moringotto knows well what has befallen the Noldor with the loss of our king, so why stop to concede defeat when he has the momentum we just lost?"

"I agree," Makalaurë added. He was frowning, arms crossed rigidly in front of him and his face shadowed by a tacit anguish that would just not dissipate. His dark gaze was cast down, staring at nothing in particular but clouded over with whatever thoughts were running through his head. "He speaks of Noldorin obstinacy, but if there is anything we have learned of Moringotto amid his presence in Valinor, it is that he has a persistency of his own in obtaining whatever wants by whatever means it takes." His eyes cleared as he looked up, gaze swiveling from one to another as he arched a brow. "This may be no exception."

"By what you told us, he sounded very precise in his wording," Yánadur said. "If what he says is true, he seems more concerned with us dishonoring his terms and leaving upon being given a Silmaril than actually surrendering one at all."

Sornion grunted, shooting Yánadur a flat look. "That may be, Commander, but how can we believe anything he says?"

"We cannot. Thus the problem."

Tyelkormo lifted a gloved hand to garner attention from where he leaned against a cluster of rocks. "What if he actually does speak the truth?"

The resounding silence and incredulous stares that followed spoke volumes, and Tyelkormo lifted both hands as though warding off an impending blow, and ten of them. "I know to assume that sounds absurd, and I would be the first one to say so, but what if he indeed believes himself to be defeated?"

Carnistir's scowl darkened. "Why would he? As has been emphasized since journeying here, Moringotto has gained the upper hand."

"Did he?" Tyelkormo countered. "Or do we merely believe he did?"

Another silence followed, though this one was less profound and more resigned as a collective sigh seemed to come from the twelve Noldor. Vëantur was the first to stir, circling his fingers against his temple as though staving off a headache. "Though my heart cries against it, I understand what you say." He passed a somber stare over everyone. "If we disregard today, our good fortune has been fairly high, all things considered. And I do not think we have acknowledged just how fortunate we have been. Moringotto assailed us, yes, but though we suffered some casualties, we massacred his hordes. And the Host is safe."

No one could deny that and there were grudging looks of acceptance all around, some even looking darkly pleased. Maitimo knew as well as the rest of them that Vëantur was very correct. Upon departing from Losgar, they had marched through Hísilómë unmolested, charting the new lands with a vigilant and meticulous amount of detail, par Fëanáro's orders. It was a land unknown to them and one that had to be learned quickly, from the smallest source of water to the most distant locations for curative herbs and plants. Passing through that arduous cleft of waterfalls and what they afterwards dubbed the Ando-i-Noldor, they had at first traveled abroad, unknowing of where to go, before being confronted by Moriquendi from the low hills northward, and by them directed to travel to the land named after those Elves; Mithrim. Despite the fervent focus on Moringotto, Fëanáro had emphasized the need of being able to live off the land and to fortify a stable encampment. And so their first weeks in Endórë were spent cataloguing and mapping. So much mapping. And then settling alongside the Lake, the greatest source of water nearby from which sprouted four rivers. It was an ideal location for an encampment, if any, and their focus had been centered on readying a possible home in the Grey Fields north of the Lake.

And so when Moringotto's assault came from over the mountains, they had been caught wholly unprepared, their camp not even finished, and the horde of Orcs sent had been impossibly massive. But despite being outnumbered and taken unawares, their victory had been swift and triumphant. So much so that the Orcs had fled from them, from their long and terrible swords, from the anger they fed on and no less from the fell wrath of Fëanáro, and had been driven in terror back across the mountains. Maitimo had not been the only one quick to give chase. All of them had. Maitimo could still remember the hot adrenaline that raced madly through his veins. Ten days that battle under the stars had lasted, and so great had their conquest been of the Enemy's horde that only a bare few hundred Orcs remained of the thousands upon thousands that had been sent out.

It had only been this day, Maitimo reflected desolately, the eleventh day, when it had all fallen apart.

But in light of the recent battling, he was beginning to understand why Vëantur agreed with Tyelkormo. Why would Moringotto not believe himself defeated when not even half a tithe of those he sent to assail them managed to survive it? As Vëantur reminded, it was not some hard-won battle, but a true massacre. It had almost been too easy.

Sornion was slowly nodding, but skepticism still shadowed his face as he lifted an eyebrow. "Mayhap Moringotto really does not know why we retreat back into the mountains. That we flee to regroup. That we flee because King Fëanáro is dead." The words rang in the silence. Maitimo willed himself to go inwardly still. It had only been mere hours since they lost their father and king and too much was happening too fast. But Sornion clearly and, by the distressed expression he now wore, personally recognized the effect of his words and he gave a fatigued shake of his head. "We stand huddled in this fissure for many reasons, but primarily because we have no notion at all how to defeat or merely hinder those…those…." He gestured uncertainly with his hands, brow furrowing.

"Valaraukar." Everyone turned to look at Yánadur at the mutter, expressions ranging from intrigued to confused. Yánadur raised an eyebrow at suddenly finding himself the center of attention and gave a dismissive shrug. "It is fitting enough. I know not what the Moriquendi call them, or would call them if they have yet to encounter such dark creatures. The stems are derived from etymons of the tongue of the first Quendi, when such descriptions were evidently applicable." He looked at Maitimo, eyes narrowing in thought. "Though Fëanáro took no more active part in our linguistic lore after his remake of the Sarati, he knew more than any other of Valarin and could probably speak it I wager, though he shared none of his knowledge of it with me, nor any other Lambengolmo." Maitimo was nodding before he even finished, along with quite a few of his brothers, and Yánadur waved away the digression. "I say this because I am sure the Valar have their own term for such fiery monstrosities, but your father was well learnt in even the earliest tales of Valinor relayed to us from even before we Awoke. I remember we would sit for hours discussing it, Rúmil's memory occasionally encouraging our conversations, but some of the darker tales that we often believed were mayhap embellished entailed the very meaning of the term I dub those…things." He paused for a moment before shaking his head, an irritable set to his jaw as his lip faintly curled. "My command of Mithrimin truly is poor right now, I confess, and I cannot yet determine what they may be in this tongue."

Maitimo frowned, taking Yánadur's words into consideration and trying to recall those very exchanges of discourse his father had held with Rúmil that he had listened to on occasion, either out of boredom or the genuine inquisitive vein for knowledge in his blood. He tried to recall the less spoken, darker details they had seldom spoken of, of what his grandparents had ever described about the less pleasant aspect of Cuiviénen, for surely they would have recognized the components of a word such as _valaraukar_ when that first tongue of the Quendi was the first they had known. But then, his grandparents had spoken little of the darker side of their first home, at least to Maitimo.

Both the twins wore identically disturbed expressions from where they stood shoulder to shoulder. They glanced at each other, sharing some unspoken communication and simultaneously swinging their gazes back to Yánadur. "You truly equate those beasts of flame to Maiar?"

Yánadur appeared less certain at the question. "Their like was described in even the most ancient tales of the World with that name, before we were even placed in it. Existing in the time of the Wars of the Valar, what else could those beasts be?"

"The discussion of what name we should call them by is for later," Curufinwë rebuked a tad impatiently. "For nevertheless, those Valaraukar fled from us when we reached the king." He looked around at them all and drummed his fingers. "They fled from us just as the Orcs had. Surely that must mean something." He shot the last at Maitimo, but Maitimo merely met his insistent gaze and said nothing.

"But how do we know they fled in truth and Moringotto had not simply summoned them back?" Carnistir suggested. "Methinks we learned from that Orc-speaker that Moringotto is just as capable as his Brethren of communicating directly with his Maiar without any Elf being the wiser."

Another spell of silence followed that and every expression seemed more dismal at the insinuation.

"Who is playing whom?" Makalaurë distractedly voiced, his eyes glazed over again at some inward trail of thought. "We can hardly deny that this Orc-speaker was a Maia, so how many more has he at his beck and call?" His eyes cleared and grew unfathomably bright as he turned his attention once again on the others, though primarily Maitimo. His eyebrows puckered as he gave a slight shake of his head. "We came to Endórë in full expectation and will to face Moringotto, Maitimo. Though the reality of the Orcs surprised us as much as horrified us all, we anticipated to battle against Moringotto, not a host of Maiar as well. And if Moringotto indeed works to deceive us into believing that these Valaraukar fled from us, then this parley is a trap at its finest."

"Is it possible Moringotto believes we might do them damage?" Aráto suggested tentatively, speaking for the first time, though doubt at his own words was plain in his face. "Though he fell to their blows, King Fëanáro held out for a long time against them when knowing naught of how to combat them. Mayhap he dealt them a fell blow in the time he held his own against them, and he might have for all we know. It is true we know nothing of these Valaraukar, but if those creatures are another dastardly creation of Moringotto's…." He trailed off, gesturing towards Tyelkormo. "As Prince Tyelkormo said, we massacred the first creatures he sent our way. Though I may be wrong, Moringotto still greatly underestimated us."

"And so he would negotiate with us." Makalaurë sighed, his lips thinning into a tight line. "Know we even where this appointed place to meet is?"

"Sixteen leagues northeast from the base of the mountains, he said," Vëantur supplied, and then he made a face. "He called it Thango-gorodrim," he murmured, stumbling over the strange pronunciation.

"Undoubtedly of the Moriquendi language," Yánadur added musingly.

Vëantur turned a curious look on him. "What does it mean?"

Yánadur shrugged. "I know not enough Mithrimin to guess, though nothing pleasant probably." Vëantur snorted and Yánadur shot him a grim smile. "Something with mountains, however. _Orod_ is a word of theirs for mountains, not so dissimilar from ours."

"Then he must have meant those three peaks." Tyelkormo narrowed his eyes in contemplation. "Those are the only other mountains visible from here."

Almost as one, all the Noldor collectively turned to look northeast where, between two apices of the mountains that housed them, they could plainly see the tiny silhouette of those three great towers, seeming to pierce up into the low-riding gales.

"Wonderful," Carnistir grunted, though just what he was so disgruntled about Maitimo could not even begin to guess.

Makalaurë looked at Maitimo, a delicate eyebrow raised in question. "What say you, brother? This whole discussion you have been quiet."

There was an anticipated silence as all turned to him, every gaze expectant, and Maitimo felt a flare of exasperation at the unspoken assertion that he had all the answers. But he suppressed it, knowing it was an unworthy and unfair thought. He gathered his wits, turning an introspective glance on each of them and crossing his arms over his chest as he lightly pursed his lips. "Let us for a moment accept the chance that this is truly a sincere parley. When in that supposition, I believe Yánadur is correct in his assessment of Moringotto's message. It sounds like the ultimate goal is to end our battle with him and that the surrendering of a Silmaril is nothing but a means to appease us. In all ends, it is clear that he chiefly wants us to leave and never return unto _his_ demesne. Well," he went on stonily, a fell light entering his eyes, "the war he bids us forfeit will happen anyway. We vowed to reclaim all three of our king's Jewels, not just one, and I have a far bitterer craving to battle Moringotto now all the more, for now stealing from our people two kings." There were vigorous nods all around, a whole swarm of extreme emotions charging the air between them, and Maitimo looked at them in grim satisfaction. "No matter his terms, war will come, and I will without hesitation go to dishonor every one of his terms before bowing to what he wants."

"Then why go if we are to war with him no matter what?" Carnistir contested after a moment. "Why when Moringotto's only purpose for it is to end our war?"

Maitimo returned his quarrelsome gaze with a somewhat resigned one of his own, though no less resolved. "Because what if he does actually intend to surrender a Silmaril?" he said, his reluctance to heed such a desperate idea obvious in his voice. But the level of resolve in Maitimo's eyes outweighed such doubt and Carnistir uttered no protestation. No one did, or mayhap no one had the courage to. "Despite that we would have it otherwise, Moringotto has laid a crossroad before us. Doubt me not, dear brother, or any of you," he emphasized. "My heart is far more willing and ready to believe that this parley is just another elaborately set ruse and the mouth of his Orc-speaker relaying another deliberately crafted speech to make me believe he is being honest. Moringotto was able to deceive even the Valar, for all that they are of his ilk, and thus the extent of his wiles upon us Elves cannot be underestimated." A grim set to his mouth, Maitimo's eyes grew darker, his voice becoming quieter. "But if there exists the smallest chance that Moringotto speaks the truth," he went on gravely, "however vile it may be to say it, we cannot afford to bypass this opportunity to reclaim a Silmaril, even if it be only one Silmaril indeed."

No one spoke. It seemed no one had anything to say. Or, Maitimo revised, no one had the mettle to say it, judging by the many looks of dismal indecision wreathing their faces. But none of them seemed ready to refute what he said, at least not so quickly. Maitimo met Makalaurë's hesitant gaze and was almost startled by the dreary light he saw in it that Makalaurë did not bother to hide. But before he could open his mouth to question what so unmistakably haunted his brother's mind, Sornion was breaking the heavy silence.

"Moringotto's deceptions in Valinor have long been dismantled," he put out thoughtfully, eyes cast down with a frown. He seemed pensive as he gnawed on the inside of his cheek. "He knows we now know the true blackness of his heart, for all the fairness he cloaked it in. Mayhap he knows it to now be folly in trying to deceive us as he once did, already knowing that we would not trust it."

"You believe Moringotto?" Carnistir cried in disbelief.

"I believe what Prince Maitimo is saying," he clarified a tad forcefully, his eyes snapping over to Carnistir with a defensive glare. But then he relented, gesturing in chagrin. "For all the assessing we do, I know not which of the two paths to trust, if either can even be trusted. But I will do as I am bidden, whatever my princes decide."

Carnistir opened his mouth and closed it, jaw clenched. He cast his eyes down with a frown, looking at nothing in particular, and he shifted on his feet with a harsh sigh. "I still do not trust it," he bit out.

Maitimo sighed. "So you keep saying." He turned to his Second. "What is known about the land of the place appointed?"

Sornion winced, lips pursed in displeasure. "That area has yet to be scouted, Highness. King Fëanáro bade me and the scouts of the Nelyahossë to begin assessing those lands and charting them eight days ago when we first crossed the mountains. But…." He trailed off, a look of discomfort ghosting across his face as he gestured uncertainly, but Maitimo nodded. Their battle and subsequent chase of Moringotto's horde had only just ended today and every sword of the Nelyahossë had been needed. There had been no opportunity until now to even begin their mapping of the lands that lay between them and where Moringotto dwelled. "It is unknown territory right now," Sornion went on. "Any answer I can provide on what those lands sixteen leagues out will entail will be based only on the steppes we have already traveled."

"Another bad thing," Carnistir said darkly. "Aye, being equidistant for this exchange is fair if this is an actual parley, but we would be walking into a place we know nothing about when he surely knows everything about it!"

"Maitimo?" This time it was the other twin who spoke, looking just as doubtful as they both had for this whole meeting. "If we do this, do you truly mean to let those Orcs go?" Pityafinwë asked. "We stand with Carnistir that Moringotto forfeited any right to speak of an honorable covenant."

Maitimo raised an eyebrow. "As I said, war will happen anyway and Moringotto will know it. If this covenant is true and he brings only a score of witnesses as promised, I will bring two."

Everyone looked at him nonplussed, some exchanging discreet glances. "Why two?" Curufinwë asked.

Maitimo turned to him and gave an indifferent roll of his shoulders. "As I also said, I care not for honoring his terms, for I believe we all would deem he deserves no such courtesy. If Moringotto really does surrender a Silmaril, I will take it and still slay all those he sent to deliver it." The reaction to this was far more positive, even if darkly so, and Maitimo could see by changes in their demeanor just how appealing his proposal sounded to them.

"Then bring three score warriors instead of two," Vëantur recommended, and another bout of questioning silence followed. "Why not? Better to overwhelm them as Moringotto attempted to do with us rather than risk the life of one Noldo for the sake of subtlety."

Maitimo thought on that and gave a single nod, regarding Vëantur with approval. "Then sixty shall march with me. It is more than enough to overwhelm their twenty."

"They will see us," Yánadur warned. "See that we brought far more than is proper."

"Mayhap not," Maitimo demurred. He gestured up towards the sky with his hand. "By whatever ill-wrought design he conceived, Moringotto has cast a cover of darkness even beyond where we stand, and so thick are these gales that not even starlight can prevail. Well, he wants the dark, so let us use it to our advantage. If we can march to the appointed place with no torch or any source of light, they surely will not see us until we are upon them completely. Not even starlight will be present for our armor to reflect."

"But if they do carry a Silmaril," Tyelkormo interjected, "they will withhold it come the moment they realize you brought more than a score of Noldor."

Maitimo opened his mouth but hesitated. He was right.

"If we are quick to slay them, mayhap that possibility will be squandered," Sornion suggested. "We already know we can outrun the average Orc. These last ten days of chasing them down have proven that. Their escort would not be able to flee back to Moringotto with the Jewel even if they tried, so long as we are quick enough with our swords."

"But what if it is not Orcs you face?" Carnistir threw out hotly. "I care not what that Orc-speaking-Maia or whatever he is promised. A score, _sure_. But what if it is a score of Valaraukar he sends instead of Orcs?"

Despite the dark temper, Maitimo still nodded in concession to what he said. "That will be one advantage we do have. The steppes are a flat land and so dead of life that I wager we will not see even one tree. We should be able to see about a league out before reaching them, and thus we will be able to see whether Moringotto had sent more than the score of Orcs he promised. Likewise," he added with a bitter, crooked grin, "those Valaraukar are not particularly subtle. They walk with a living fire and if even one Valarauko comes with Moringotto's embassy, he will be as visible in the distance as a lone star would be in the sky."

Though the words had been meant to appease him, and Maitimo was confident that they had, Carnistir continued to stare at him with his jaw set, his bright eyes hard and unyielding, and Maitimo was once again reminded of how this particular brother of his had especially inherited their father's arsenal of steely glares. "And what will you do?" he finally asked, his voice stiff.

The upturning of the corners of his mouth was more genuine this time. "Return here," he assured calmly. "I have no intention of marching to my death, or leading any of the Elves who accompany me to theirs. If we see from afar that Moringotto sent more than he pledged, let alone any Valaraukar, then this parley is a trap in truth and no Silmaril at all will be among them to surrender."

"And if it is a trap, you will return hither at once?" Carnistir stressed.

Maitimo just stopped from rolling his eyes. " _Yes_ , Carnistir. What else would I do? As Sornion said, we can outrun them, even with the weight of our armor. And at the sight of one more Orc than a score, let alone one Valarauko, we will turn and run as swiftly as we can back to the mountains."

Makalaurë shot a quizzical look at him. "What if they follow?"

Maitimo hesitated. "That would be a problem, to put it mildly." Carnistir was not the only one who scoffed and Maitimo gestured helplessly, a small sigh of resignation passing his lips. "Unless any of you has wise words to counsel me on that, I fear the possibility of another attack being launched on our encampment is inevitable. If we go and flee and they follow, we will be battling again. If we stay and let Moringotto construe our absence as a further declaration of war, he will send more hordes and we will be battling again. If this is a parley in truth and we go and reclaim the Silmaril, then he has no actual intention of sending the score of Orcs or any amount of Orcs after us."

Makalaurë gave him a sardonic glare. "You just said we will slay the twenty Orcs anyway."

Maitimo nodded. "And thus we will be battling again, for Moringotto will then know that we have no intention of retreating from the war we declared on him before even leaving Tirion. No matter what we do with this parley, the war will go on. It is just a matter of fully fortifying our encampment quickly enough first, and hopefully this might grant us more time to do that. We need to be capable of living in these foreign lands."

No one voiced disagreement with that, nor to his insistence of encouraging war with Moringotto, but Maitimo knew their minds pretty well by now. Though no one had sworn the Oath he and his brothers had taken upon themselves twice over, every Elf, nér and nís, held the raw memory of Finwë close to their hearts. And the slaying of Fëanáro only exacerbated the very grievance they had flown from Valinor for. Defied the Valar for. One did not just retreat like a cowered puppy when provided all the more reason to roar. Moringotto was the fool if he thought they would forget or, Valar forbid, forgive all that quickly.

"Who will go?" asked Yánadur. "I know you will, Maitimo, but who will you have with you?"

"Commander Sornion." The Elf looked at him and Maitimo nodded. "You will come. After this council is adjourned, go with Vëantur and Yánadur and choose among you from the three Companies forty Elves of the sword to accompany us." Sornion inclined his head to him just as Aráto lifted an enquiring hand. Maitimo nodded to him.

"I ask of you to take some of the King's Guard with you, my prince," he nearly beseeched. "Myself included. Let us fulfill the duty we were set with."

Maitimo considered that, staring unwaveringly at the Captain for a long moment. "I will allow twelve to come for my protection, including yourself." Aráto was visibly relieved and he bowed in understanding of the order. Maitimo looked at Sornion. "Account for that in who you select. I still want no more than sixty." Maitimo turned to his second brother. "Tyelkormo, confer with your Captains to select the other twenty from the Pilindossë and Ehtyari. I ask not for archer units but those you believe best suited for this embassy of ours, particularly those of a capable shot in the dark. Those going will need to have skill in fighting without the aid of light."

Tyelkormo nodded. "I go with you, then?" he asked, shifting to straighten from his stance as if to go prepare himself.

"No," Maitimo said firmly. "None of you will go with me." An incredulous silence met the words from all six of them, but Maitimo forewent breaking it.

"Why not?" Curufinwë finally demanded.

Maitimo met them all with an unyielding stare he made sure was worthy of his father. "As has been emphasized," he explained in a composed voice that belied the fire in his eyes, "this whole venture is a risk and one I deem not worth more than one of us taking."

That statement was definitely not well received. Thankfully, however, Aráto spoke up before he had six enraged voices yelling at him, though Aráto appeared to be just as disagreeable as his brothers.

"Why must you go at all, Highness? Pray send another as your voice. If Moringotto does seek to trap us, you are not the one to be trapped, my liege. So many would readily go in your stead."

"Heed him! For he speaks wisely," Tyelkormo nearly shouted. He glared at Maitimo, his expression stormily dark. "I know this contradicts what I earlier said of the Enemy's message, but you, Maitimo, are the next ideal person to kill. He stole the life of King Finwë, he stole the life of our father, and you are next in the line!"

"Third Finwë," Curufinwë ominously muttered, his eyes just as dark.

"Because," Maitimo went on unflustered, his eyes deliberately moving away from Tyelkormo to Aráto instead, "I will not send another in my stead to fulfill what I swore to do. And neither you nor any of those others you refer to stood in that courtyard in Tirion alongside me."

"There are six others who swore the same damn Oath, you fool!" Carnistir shouted furiously.

"Calm yourself, Carnistir!" Makalaurë warned.

"After he has this idiocy knocked from his head!" Carnistir turned a baleful glare on the lot of them. "I know not how any of you can stand idly by when he is set to march off to a very likely death!"

The silence that followed was awkward and uncomfortable, half looking at Carnistir in amazement at his outburst and the other half unmistakably agreeing with him but unwilling to say it out loud.

"Carnistir," Maitimo said softly, and he met his brother with a quelling stare for a long moment until the fire of Carnistir's temper visibly dissipated, though it only did by a little. "You either hold your tongue and be quiet or leave."

There was another pregnant pause, the air taut with tension as the two continued to hold the other's gaze. No one spoke, even as Carnistir's hands clenched and unclenched the roots he was leaning against, the tendons of his fingers and knuckles straining against his skin. But then Carnistir lowered his eyes, his eyebrows drawing even deeper together, and without another word he turned on his heel and quickly left the grove.

Maitimo sighed as he watched him go, glancing at his other brothers and seeing looks of equal dismay on their faces as they stared after where Carnistir had disappeared around the bend. "Let him go," he said wearily. He looked around at the other Elves, meeting each of their uncertain gazes. "Unless any of you have further counsel, we need to move posthaste. During our leave, I want the Noldohossë to return to the Lake and for the Host to be apprised of all that has happened since we set after Moringotto's horde, chiefly of the king's demise." He finally looked towards Fionildo who nearly blended into the rocks he stood near for all the notice he had drawn to himself amid the gathering. "Master Fionildo, I know you most probably deemed your presence here unnecessary, but based on the conditions you heard, are the warriors who I require ready for such a journey?"

Fionildo nodded without hesitation. "There have been plenty of wounds these past ten days, some of them severe, but if you discount those with wounds that would hinder them to walk sixteen leagues, let alone fight, there are many who stand able. All I recommend is that you allow them to obtain a night's rest undisturbed." He looked Maitimo up and down. "Yourself as well, Highness."

Maitimo cast a knowing look at Fionildo, a ghost of a smile touching his lips that swiftly disappeared as he turned to the three Commanders. "Decide on those who will accompany us and bid them sleep immediately. If they have difficulty, mayhap the healers can provide a draught to aid them. If we set out tomorrow we should make it well within the five days allotted."

"If I may suggest, Highness," Fionildo interrupted. "Take one healer with you. Even during the journey to the appointed place, an accident may happen."

Maitimo nodded. "Whoever you recommend. To all of you, summon all the Captains to meet in an hour. We need to brief them of all that is to soon happen." He turned to meet each of their stares one more time. "Go now, all of you, unless you have more to speak. Makalaurë, please await me by that spring just south of here."

One by one they departed the grove, his brothers moving more stiffly. He could not really blame them. To his surprise, however, Yánadur remained, having not even shifted from where he stood. Maitimo waited until the others disappeared around the bend, and then waited a while longer to ensure they were out of hearing range before turning an enquiring look on the old Elf. His eyebrows hiked up in question.

"What is it?"

"I know your mind is set, Maitimo, but should I not go with you?" There was a disconsolate gleam in his dark eyes and he could not quite conceal the desperate note in his voice. "I presume Makalaurë will be your regent as you were your father's, but under his command Vëantur can lead. I will not deny believing him to be a better leader than I for this host of warriors. He served two Ages as Finwë's Captain whereas I am but a scholar, and he is best suited to remain here if only one Commander were to remain. Allow me to accompany you."

Maitimo sighed, bowing his head. It was difficult to look into eyes he knew so well that were presently staring at him with a sadness and near desperation that were so raw. "Yánadur, you need to lock away your heart right now, as I am doing," he said jadedly, and he could not resist stepping closer to rest a comforting hand on his shoulder. The muscles were tense beneath his fingers and he briefly kneaded them. "Do not do this to me. Please. You are one of the few not of our blood who mourn my father as seldom few can, and though I know you feel it keenly, you cannot allow it to now dictate your decisions. You know that," he stressed.

Yánadur shut his eyes tight, his face cringing in an effort to suppress the choked up sounds that were trying to emerge from his throat. He clenched his jaw, releasing a shuddering sigh, and appeared to rein in the sudden onslaught of grief provoked by Maitimo's words. And though it made the sting of his own heart burn even more, Maitimo felt comforted in the face of such sorrow. Yánadur had been a friend of his father's since before he himself was born. Even after his father had ended any further activity in linguistic evolution for instead other passions, among them raising a family, his involvement with the Loremasters of Tongues had still been great, and Yánadur had been a frequent guest to their home. A faint smile softened Maitimo's expression as he recalled sitting beneath the dining table, nodding off until falling asleep against his father's legs as the two of them droned on about one language or another, a structure within another structure, components and monosyllabic stems and proverbial dictums, all things to positively bore a child. And all the while Fëanáro had absently run his long fingers through his russet hair, probably amused by the short attention span of his firstborn. But always had Yánadur been a steadfast companion to his father's House, unto even developing a fond friendship with the sons of his friend. A fondness, Maitimo construed, that was now being acted on when it should not be.

"I know you, Yánadur," he said kindly. "You desire to come for the friendship you had with my father, and I daresay even out of some self-appointed obligation to look after me. It would not be the first time." Yánadur's expression did not change, but he was listening, however reluctantly. Maitimo squeezed his shoulder. "Please, do not pay heed to your heart right now. I ask you to stay with my brother not because you command the Tatyahossë, but because you are one of the few of us able to converse with the Mithrim and Lord Neldoron on a comprehensible level." He gave Yánadur a significant look. "You know I am correct, my friend. You and Yáravalto are the only Lambengolmor among the Host with the intellect demanded to overcome the barrier of our speech with these Moriquendi. And we _need_ to be able to learn these peoples' strange language."

A sad smile twitched along Yánadur's lips. "Another reason I grieve your father now being gone. Aside from Yáravalto and me, your father, Curufinwë and you had the best grasp on this language." He lightly scoffed, giving a small shake of his head as he glanced away. "Fëanáro was learning Mithrimin faster than I could ever hope to."

"But you understand why I ask you to stay, do you not? Yes, we are all making an effort to learn even the most rudimentary Mithrimin, but you and Yáravalto are now the most capable of communication due to your knowledge of Quenderin. Yes, I may speak it well enough myself, but it is no passion of mine as it is for you. Makalaurë will need you as a Commander, but presently you are invaluable as a translator."

Yánadur furrowed his brow, peering at him in suspicion. "You speak as though you are not returning."

Maitimo gave him a crooked grin, though it was without any humor. "I have every intention of returning as quickly as we may. But you know of the ill fortune that will find us as it wills. You watched my father breathe his last. Should I somehow fall, even by accident, Makalaurë will need your support. Even after we return, with a Silmaril or not, we have to begin designing contingency plans. Truly, we should have started to do so the moment we stepped upon the shores of Losgar," he added somewhat bitterly.

Yánadur nodded in chagrin. "I cannot deny that," he grumbled. "But be you careful, Maitimo. We cannot easily predict anything anymore."

Maitimo nodded also and then cocked his head towards the entrance of the grove. "Go now. I need to speak with Makalaurë."

Yánadur bowed his head and with a fond pat to the hand on his shoulder he departed. Maitimo followed, turning south once clear of the bend and he walked a short distance on an incline, weaving through and sometimes climbing over the trees roughened by the harsh winds, half of which seemed to forget which way they were meant to grow and sprouted sideways from the walls of rock.

He arrived at the spring, more a trickle of water really, for it fell in a clear tranquil slide over a tumble of stones and small boulders, singing as beautifully as the Valar-wrought fountains had in Eldamas. It was, Maitimo absently reflected, one smidgen of evidence that there truly was beauty of the highest kind in even the most unsuspecting places in this forsaken land. It was comforting, at least because it instilled some sense of normalcy in all this chaos. Though, he added in exasperation, such water trickling over stones would be even more beautiful if there were starlight to shine in it.

Makalaurë was sitting on a massive root of one of those confused trees, staring pensively at the miniscule waterfall. He looked up when Maitimo came in sight.

"I am sorry for Carnistir," he said, turning back to the spring water.

Maitimo waved the apology away. "Do not be. He begins to unravel and I cannot blame him." He approached Makalaurë until he stood nearby, following his gaze to the water. "We need to talk."

* * *

Ando-i-Noldor: "Gate of the Noldor" Quenya rendition of Sindarin _Annon-in-Gelydh  
_ Endórë: Beleriand/Ennor  
Valaraukar: Balrogs  
Lambengolmo(r): Loremaster(s) of Tongues, an official title  
Orod (pl. eryd): Sindarin for "mountain(s)" with Quenya cognate _oron (pl. oronti)_ comparatively  
Nelyafinwë: lit. "Third-Finwë"  
Quenderin: name of the ancient Elven-speech, derived by the Noldor from the original word 'Quendian'


	4. Not Farewell

Name Index:  
Káno = Maglor, abbr. of his father-name  
Moryo = Caranthir, abbr. of his father-name

* * *

 **Chapter 4:  
Not Farewell**

Makalaurë did not react to the words, though he did shift over from where he sat on the root after a pause, seeming to make room for Maitimo to join him if he desired. His younger brother continued to stare at the serene fall of water, his quick fingers shredding what appeared to be dead leaves. At least Maitimo hoped the leaves were dead, snatched up from the many that were strewn across the ground and not from a lustrous bough hovering overhead. It was then he noticed that Makalaurë's hands glistened in places, as did his face and neck and hair. He had obviously made use of the time to clean the filth and residual flecks of blood from his skin. He always had been fastidious about being clean, Maitimo reflected with a fond smile.

"Some starlight would be nice," he finally said, and Maitimo's eyebrows canted up slightly. Makalaurë scoffed. "You would think Moringotto became accustomed to such light while in Valinor, and by his persistency in maintaining these gales it is as though even the smallest light now offends him."

"Mayhap it does," Maitimo said lightly as he sat alongside him. A contented sigh fell from his lips at being off his feet. "Mayhap darkness is water to him, by which he can clean off the light like we would with dirt."

A ghost of a smile crossed Makalaurë's face. But it disappeared as he finally turned to look at Maitimo, that glimmer of desolation now shining very prominently in his eyes, making them even brighter. "What happened to him, Nelyo?" he whispered, his voice low and face beginning to crumble. "What happened to Atar? Is this some new cruelty given unto us that we are left not even with a body to bury?" His eyes glistened with unshed tears and Maitimo could see his struggle to keep them from falling. Makalaurë covered his mouth with a stiff hand, hunching forward to lean on his knees. "I know the deeds we have done, that we may yet come to do, but who would have so merciless a heart to deal such a punishment?" His mellifluous voice, always so golden and honeyed, now wavered and grew thick. "Whether the Valar damned him or Ilúvatar forsook him, he was our father. Is it not the right of the sons to bury their father? To honor him for being their father? For giving his unconditional love to them? For teaching them and mentoring them? For raising them up in the way they should go? For holding them when they wept? For making them laugh? For being everything a father should have been?" He looked at Maitimo again, tears escaping from his eyes as, against his will, his shoulders began to shake, ragged sobs being torn from his chest. "Were his wrongs so great that he forfeited his right to be honored just as a father? That he was left to be discarded like ash from a hearth?" He closed his eyes tight, running fingers through his silken tresses to clench at his hair. "Who could be so cold?" The words were nearly unintelligible.

Maitimo relented and gathered him in his arms. Makalaurë went willingly, leaning on him as he had not done since their youth. Maitimo tucked his brother's head under his own and rested his chin on top of his crown, prying the fingers loose from the soft hair and replacing them with his own as he ignored the painful tightening of his own chest and the stubborn swelling of moisture in his eyes. "You listen to me, Káno," he whispered fiercely. "I know you mean to say the Valar every time you question who, but even they honored our father for who he was, despite all the bitterness he had towards them. You knew well Atar's fire, and I think that whatever happened to him on that field proved that fire to be far more real than ever believed. So bright was it and so potent was its burn that the very hröa that housed it could not withstand it. That is what I think. What I will only think. No death of any Elf has ever wrought such an end and I honestly foresee this wonder echoing down through the chronicles of history, whether by Elven tome or Valarin memory."

Makalaurë did not speak, clearly could not, and Maitimo pressed his lips to the dark hair, his own eyes squeezing shut as he tightening his hold on his brother to a near painful grip. "Our father will not go dishonored. I promise," he forced out, jaw clenching as his eyes began to burn. "There is much to live on for in his name for us alone, and among our people they venerate him for leading them unto the freedom of this new land, however fraught with danger it may be. Grieve as you must, Káno, but know he would not want you crippled by his death as he himself was by Anatar Finwë's."

And Maitimo just held him close, running fingers gently along his mass of hair, knowing there was really nothing else he could do. And Makalaurë wept. "Spend as much time this night by this spring as you need, brother, but see yourself composed ere you walk among the Noldohossë once more. They mourn as well and need us strong, for though Atar was an Elf as much as you and I, I reckon no one truly expected death to befall him, of all people, and the shock has still yet to wear off I think. Cold as it may seem, we must put them first and grieve in our own time." He forced his eyes open and looked down at Makalaurë, running his hand up and down where he held him, his chest physically aching at the more and more he grew aware that there was literally nothing he could do. "Take as much solitude as you need. It will only do you harm to keep this contained."

But Makalaurë was shaking his head, pulling himself from Maitimo's embrace to sit up straight once more, bracing himself on his knees as he resolutely closed his eyes and took several deep breaths that came out shuddering. Maitimo watched him and resisted the temptation to offer a further comforting touch, allowing him the time he needed to collect himself. Though he looked far from composed, Makalaurë took a final breath and lifted his head, jaw clenched determinedly. His eyes were reddened, lingering tears yet clinging to long eyelashes, and he ran both hands agitatedly over his face. That with his apparel weathered and hair disheveled and partially wet, he looked a mess. "No," he finally guttered out. "You said we need to talk."

"When you are ready."

He snorted humorlessly. "That will be a long time coming." He leaned back, turning to Maitimo. "Are you truly set on this course, Nelyo?"

"Are you not?"

Makalaurë shook his head dismissively. "You know I stand with you, but I cannot deny my heart is in full agreement with Carnistir's adamancy in not trusting it."

"As is mine." He raised an eyebrow at Makalaurë's resultant appraisal of him. "Why look you so? The only reason any and I disbelieve the sincerity of this parley is because it is Moringotto who offers it."

Makalaurë studied him at that before giving a reluctant nod. "I know, as much as I loathe to say it," he grumbled. "You swear you will turn back come the moment you glimpse even a morsel of evidence that the Orc-speaker lied? You will not engage?"

Maitimo reached out and uplifted his chin with gentle fingers, turning his face until he met Maitimo's eyes. Maitimo regarded him gravely. "Upon the memory of our father, Makalaurë," he said solemnly, "I swear I will bid our embassy to turn and flee upon the first sign of deceit. If even one more Orc shows than the twenty promised, though I will still be tempted to slay them, we will take not a step further. Though if they charge us we will defend ourselves against them, of course. And any Valaraukar, even one, will be seen a league away." The corner of his mouth twitched up in a morose smile. "I do not believe our plan is foolproof, but upon the high chance that this is a ruse, I believe we can evade it, so long as we run fast."

"In theory," Makalaurë argued darkly. "If Moringotto has some new foul creature from his pits that we have yet to see and that can run faster than us, you may be in trouble."

"Thus why I said this is a risk not worth more than one of us taking. But the Commanders and Tyelkormo will select the best to send with me." Maitimo cocked his head. "You know why I ask you to remain, no?"

Makalaurë nodded, not looking too pleased. "The same reason you bid our brothers to remain."

"Yes. And no," he demurred. "It is what I wish to speak with you about."

Makalaurë sighed in chagrin. "I know why, Nelyo. I can barely hold myself together right now. I have tried to conceal it before our people and believe I have, but I would nigh be a liability on this undertaking I deem."

"No, Káno. That is not why." Makalaurë's eyes snapped over to him, both confused and alert, and a wince passed over Maitimo's face as a knot formed in the pit of his stomach. "You are now the regent of our people upon any absence of mine, as I was for Atar. And you need to stay here to lead the Host if I should die amid this exchange for a Silmaril."

Makalaurë glared at him, eyes bright with a fiery light, and he looked but one step away from unraveling all over again. "Do not say that," he gnashed out harshly. "You just finished trying to reassure me that you and those Noldor with you will return, with a Silmaril or not. Speak you no spiel of defeat now."

Maitimo felt a surge of fondness at the vehemence. He held up a placating hand. "I do not," he further reassured. "But after all we have been through, you know as well as I how anything can happen, even accidents most wild to conceive and least likely to occur. After all," he added glibly, "amid this journey to the place appointed, traveling in the utter dark as we will be, I could trip on a rock and break my neck."

A begrudging grin tugged at the corner of Makalaurë's mouth. He reached out and smacked Maitimo's arm. "Do not make light of this."

Maitimo smiled, absently rubbing where he had been hit. The smack had been hard enough to actually hurt. "Sorry." The smile faded into something more grave again. "Atar had this same talk with me before we even left Tirion, Káno," he went on quietly, and he had to shake his head as a bitter smile twisted his lips. "And the Valar know I wanted to shut my ears to just what he was portending, but I will not dishonor him by doing any less. I know they are the last words you would hear from me, but you must prepare yourself for such an eventuality. Valar, I do not even refer to this parley. I may die next week, next month, or years from now. You may as well, or any of our brothers, or anyone else. And in the event of _my_ demise you must prepare yourself." His brow puckered in mild distress at the look on Makalaurë's gentle face. "And not just your heart, Káno. Tyelkormo is proving himself through his command of the Pilindossë and Ehtyari to be very capable of leading a host of warriors as well as he does with his own banner. I deem he is able for that, but he is not ready to take up the mantle of actually ruling the Noldor."

"Nor am I!" he protested, frowning at Maitimo in a mixture of anger and mounting anxiety. "Of all our brothers and cousins, you were the one to sit at Anatar's feet to learn the ways of governing our people, not I."

"That may be, but you are still the next able after me. At least now you are." Maitimo's expression softened as he absently regarded his brother's visage, finding himself running his eyes over every smooth plane of his face, over dark eyes and a worried brow, a strong jaw and high cheekbones, putting to memory every detail of his brother's fair complexion. He found himself doing that too many times since entering Hísilómë. He reached out and swept a few wandering dark strands over Makalaurë's tense shoulder, an affectionate smile touching his lips. "Do not doubt yourself, for you remember all our talks late in the night, no? When Atar had to yell at us to go to sleep, so late we stayed awake? And even after the farewell to our youth, the hours we would spend talking over a carafe of wine, also late into the night, when Atar again yelled at us to go to sleep despite our advanced age?"

Makalaurë nodded, appearing to calm at the deep tranquility Maitimo instilled in his voice. "We spoke of everything," he agreed with a slight huff, a glimmer of humor sparking briefly in his eyes. "Even in Formenos we talked." He pursed his lips, eyes lowering. "We should do it again."

Maitimo nodded. "If only as a distraction. But I shared everything with you, not the least all the lessons Anatar had to teach me. Though I knew I bored you, you heard all I had spoken of what I learned. Even if now you can recall little of it, you have lived in the presence of Anatar and Atar, both of whom took up the mantle of kingship. The ways of leading will come to you, I am sure." He ran his fingers along his brother's temple and Makalaurë did not rebuff the touch. "We will talk of this more when I return. I know it is much to ask, Makalaurë, but if I happen to die in five days or in five years, I just ask you to make yourself ready. Pray do not fail our sire now."

Makalaurë did not speak. He grabbed hold of Maitimo's hand that lingered and held it tight, brushing his lips against the backs of his knuckles before releasing it. He looked at Maitimo, expression grave and eyes apprehensive. "Return you hither, Nelyo," he finally said, his voice low and quiet. "Return whole and swiftly. The death of Atar is still so raw and real, and not only upon me. To lose you to death as well will be one blow too many to withstand without crumbling for the Noldor. We cannot lose you too." He lowered his eyes. "I cannot."

Maitimo again reached out and again forced him to make eye contact. "You know I will do my ultimate best to return, Káno. Believe me when I say that I have no desire to die," he added somewhat sardonically and he was glad to see it pull a quirk from the corner of his brother's mouth. "Besides, with the way Aráto persists with his self-imposed guilt over failing to protect Atar, he would see me caged with a thousand shields before allowing harm to even come my way."

Makalaurë nodded. "We really must speak to him about that. I have seen how he walks since we entered the mountains, and too greatly does it mirror his heart. If we do not put an end to this shame of his it could lead him to being reckless and thus dangerous twice over when he is the Captain of the King's Guard."

"Yes. I appreciate the turning of his mind, for he was a guard of Anatar Finwë, assigned under Vëantur no less. The depth of his devotion to Atar and now to me is understandable, but yes, we must speak with him on this guilt he insists on castigating himself with."

"He is not the only one." Makalaurë cast him a knowing look.

"Do not start," Maitimo warned. He stood before a reply could be given, stretching and appreciating the resultant burn in his sore muscles. He was silent for a moment before reluctantly looking back at Makalaurë, mouth turned down in a frown. "I am sorry for relinquishing this burden to you, Káno. Please believe that. I know I should be there – need to be there to tell the Host, but –"

Makalaurë held up a hand, giving a small shake of his head. "I understand, Nelyo, and I forgive you for it." He paused, glancing away as a look of something that resembled displeasure crossed his face. "Just come home quickly."

Maitimo hummed his agreement. "I will. Now, if you desire, stay here awhile. By Fionildo's orders to obtain a night's rest, we will not depart for some hours yet." He glanced around, a look of chagrin contorting his expression. "I am loath to leave this spring, though. It is such a still night, and just listening to this brook I can feel my fëa calm."

Makalaurë stood as well, brushing down his attire. "I still say starlight is needed."

Maitimo chortled, though it was a pitiful sound. "So it is. Heed the needs of your heart for now, brother, for I will need you in a matter of hours."

"Heed your own advice first."

He gave a halfhearted shrug, turning his eyes away. "Mayhap when all this is said and done. For now, I must." He looked back, a wry grin forcing its way to his lips. "Now, I must go find an ill-tempered brother."

Makalaurë snorted. "Happy hunting."

Maitimo watched him for a moment. Then with both hands he clasped his brother's face and kissed his brow, and he was tall enough that he barely had to lift his chin. The kiss lingered and he looked down into Makalaurë's bright eyes, an unspoken message passing between them. But Maitimo found himself faltering at the look in Makalaurë's eyes, for it was one that bespoke of affection powerful beyond endurance, and he found he could not hold such a potent gaze for long. And so, with a final, subliminal caress of his brother's hair, he left, leaving Makalaurë to his solitude.

After a brief hike back down, he entered the main stretch of the fissure, and he slowed to a stop as his eyes were drawn across the expanse of it. So many Elves sat huddled around their small campfires that littered the fissure as pinpoints of brightness in the dark. So many Elves, and he could see by their silhouettes that many had doffed their armor and dishelmed. And the low hum of quiet conversation traveled across the expanse of the mountain rent. He looked up at the skies, to the gales that seemed thicker and blacker with every new day, and he was overwhelmed with a sudden desperation to glimpse even the light of a single star. Just one.

He found himself inwardly cursing Moringotto all over again.

"Prince Maitimo!"

Maitimo looked to his left to find Vëantur approaching him, weaving through the clusters of Elves, and he nodded his welcome. "What is it?"

Vëantur bowed his head, staying his steps once at an arm's distance. "The Captains are moving to meet as we speak. With your approval, I suggested the pocket next to that aslant tree." He gestured behind him to the other side of the fissure where a tree, one of the larger ones, had apparently decided to grow at an angle where ground met rock. The majority of trees in these mountains seemed to be confused on the way their Lady had intended for them to grow.

Maitimo gave a nod of his head. "It is good enough." Observing Vëantur a moment longer, he tilted his head to the side, looking curiously at the Commander. "Are you well, Vëantur? A shadow haunts your eyes."

Vëantur gave a small shrug. "A shadow has haunted every part of my being since the king's passing. But verily, I am not sanguine with this course of action, my prince, however much I agree with what you said. Though I believe you know this."

Maitimo inclined his head. "Neither am I. But unless you or any other has a better course to counsel me in, this is our only one."

Vëantur was nodding. "I know, Highness. I mean not to say I argue it, only that I do not like it."

"None of us do."

Vëantur looked at Maitimo, his brow puckering, and he opened his mouth but hesitated, closing it again and looking away. Maitimo raised an eyebrow. "Vëantur?"

The dark-haired Elf bit off a small sigh, clearly reluctant to speak. "Why bring with you Sornion?" Before Maitimo could even conjure a response, he held up his hands as though in defense of his words. "I do not disparage his abilities, but I must confess to feeling it unjust to relinquish me unto the Noldohossë returning to the Grey Fields while you go on this venture." He paused, an air of discomfort permeating from him. "It sounds selfish saying it aloud, I know, but it is as though I am being denied to fulfill my duty. Pray understand, my prince," he nearly implored. "I marched from Eldamar under Fëanáro's banner, was assigned to the assurance of his safety when came he to Finwë's Palace. For Fëanáro I felt many things and yet do, much good and some ill, I confess, but I stand just as adamant in my fealty to him to reclaim a Silmaril, even though I swore no oath to do so." He ended on a faltering note, mayhap knowing or certainly knowing his words were close to crossing the boundaries of etiquette.

Maitimo pursed his lips. "I see I must speak to you afterwards as well," he murmured. Vëantur looked at him in bemusement, but Maitimo waved away his unspoken question. "I know you ask not to be transferred, but my decision would still stand if you did. Of the three Commanders you have the most experience in the expertise of guarding, however much most of it was accomplished with no weapons purposed for death. Makalaurë will need you during my absence for that reason, the same reason my father appointed you as head of the Minyahossë. And regarding Sornion, it is justified that he comes. Though you marched under my father, Sornion marched under my banner and he is my Second," he added, referencing the chain of command that had been established upon their Flight, and still yet evolved into something more structured and organized as they settled and instilled what function they could into their maiden society. "Just as you were my father's Second. It is no competition of loyalties, but I reckon Sornion would argue far more vehemently than you if I switched your positions and, I dare say, with the leverage of justification on his side." He spoke the last with a meager, wry smile, looking at Vëantur knowingly.

And Vëantur nodded again, appearing somewhat chastened. "I understand, Highness. Truly, I do. It gladdens me that Aráto goes with you, at least."

"It gladdens him too."

Vëantur shared a look of knowing amusement with Maitimo, offering an apathetic smile, though his broad shoulders were still taut with barely suppressed tension. He lifted his eyes and looked around the heights of the fissure, gaze going to and fro along the steep sides that towered above the campground where many pines grew, some growing in that uncanny manner from where their roots managed to find some foothold in the practically vertical rocks and crevices. And by the speed of his surveillance it was obvious Vëantur had done this many times. "I still dislike this place," he said, making a face. "The Enemy would need only to send a party one or two hundred strong up the walls of the fissure and direct a killing volley of their arrows on those who sit huddled about their fires. Or sleeping, Valar forbid. I stood with Fëanáro in his decision for this place, but even he said that while the fissure houses us, the heights house the fissure. And I still cannot shake the foreboding that unless we make the walls of this fissure impassable, we will suffer for it if Moringotto discovers the purpose we put to this place."

Maitimo gave a tight smile. "Thus why we have several dozen guards keeping vigilant watch on the perimeter as we speak," he mildly rebuked, though there was no recrimination in his voice; he wholly agreed with Vëantur. "Thus also why I suspect my father selected you as his Second." He went to say more, but there was suddenly a tickle in the back of his mind, a subliminal tug on his attention and Maitimo turned his eyes to where the disturbance beckoned him. A few dozen paces away Carnistir was walking through their people, many of whom veered out from his path with not a little alacrity. Maitimo could not blame them since Carnistir still appeared to walk with a storm of emotions brewing around him. Dressed in the muted shades as he was and with a mane of hair as dark as their father's, he nearly blended in with the perpetual nightfall in spite of the flickering light of the scattered campfires, and Maitimo suspected he only managed to spot his brother because of the movements of his swift passage through the still camp. Where he headed Maitimo could not fathom to guess and he turned back to Vëantur, who had followed his gaze and was looking after Carnistir as well.

"Go now. I will be at the briefing before long."

Vëantur bowed and Maitimo sped off in the direction of Carnistir, looking over a sea of heads to try and spy him out. Though a large part of his brain urged him to hasten his steps, he maintained a steady pace as he weaved through the many Noldor, nodding to those bows and salutes he received. But as it was, he lost both sight of Carnistir and any sense of which direction he may have headed, and he had neither the time nor focus to inwardly seek him out. Slowing to a halt, Maitimo glared darkly into space at nothing in particular. With a brief clenching of his jaw, he gave a small shake of his head before turning about and retracing his walk to head to the pocket Vëantur had nominated.

O = O = O

Maitimo let out a ragged sigh as he hunkered down on the ground, relishing in the warmth of the campfire before him. Briefing the Captains and the Seconds of the eight banners had taken the good part of an hour, though Commanders Yánadur, Vëantur and especially Sornion had been vehement in aiding along the rather summarized accounts of all that had unfolded, from the Orc-speaker's message to the course of action they had decided on. Maitimo still felt a wave of unworthiness at their fervent support when there was yet still so much to be apprehensive about. Not that Maitimo pretended otherwise. Oh, no. He had not hesitated to convey just what he thought of Moringotto's offer to parley. Even Tyelkormo and Curufinwë, who had also been present, had spoken well of the plan, however reluctantly. But then again, not one person was without reluctance in not only adhering with the decision, but having to deal with being presented with this convolution of Moringotto's at all. He had sought the counsel of the Captains as well and Maitimo did not know if he felt relieved or disappointed that they had all agreed in the end with his judgment on what to do. He scoffed. Probably because they could think of nothing better.

And now here he was, sitting on the ground and twiddling his thumbs (figuratively), having hastily retreated to a more isolated area of the fissure and kindled a small fire to life. He had found himself suddenly craving solitude, feeling on the verge of madness if he did not obtain some manner of quiet for the thoughts running mercilessly through his head, and they only kept running faster. The ground was hard with its compacted and dried soil, sprigs of grass valiantly trying to grow, and he could feel the chilling cold already seeping into his backside and legs. Wonderful. If he did not soon shift or stand completely, that cold would settle into his muscles and make them cramp, which he certainly did not need when setting out tomorrow.

Maitimo stared into the dancing flames, willing his mind to go still. But after a few moments of doing so, he felt an oppressive weight begin to settle in his chest and it grew heavier as a dark haze equally began to fester in his mind. Staring into the fire, a memory unbidden sprung to the forefront, of Makalaurë valiantly trying not to weep in choking sobs against his chest just a while ago and failing. Of him screaming his name as they knelt alongside the dust of their father's body. Of everyone looking at him, silent and waiting. Of the Captains' gazes of shock and apprehension at Moringotto's offer, and their nodding in agreement as he outlined the course of action they would initiate only mere hours from now.

His heart started to pound.

Maitimo bowed his head with another exhalation of breath and covered his hands over his face, copper strands falling over his shoulders to sweep the coarse ground. And he sagged, hunching over as tremors started to wrack through his body.

Curse it all.

He had no idea how much time passed just sitting there, but when the casual touch to his shoulder came he nearly flew from the ground, his heart galloping. He snapped his head up, startled eyes alighting on both of the twins standing shoulder to shoulder, their own hair gleaming in reds and oranges in reflection of the fire. Both were looking at him in equal parts of worry and sympathy.

It had been Telufinwë who rested a hand on his shoulder, the hand he quickly snatched away and now held aloft tentatively, hesitation clear in his ash grey eyes. "We brought you repast," he said after an awkward pause, clearly uncertain as to whether they should have disturbed him at all.

It was then Maitimo noticed the wooden bowl Pityafinwë carried and, whether it was due to the sight of food or hearing that food was nearby, his stomach suddenly gave a deep rumble. At least that part of him was still normal, he reflected sourly. He sighed, gesturing the twin closer and taking hold of the bowl, nodding his gratitude. Inside were slices and chunks of what looked like meat of a hare or maybe a marmot. Or it could be one of those bighorn sheep they had spotted living up higher in the mountains for all he knew. There were so many new species here they had never seen on the other side of the Sea that Maitimo knew more cataloging was in their near future. But the meat smelled delectable and appeared to be freshly cooked, at least judging from the great billows of steam wafting upwards.

There was no cutlery, never had been, so he pinched a cooling end of one piece and raised an eyebrow at the twins. "Sheep? Goat?" He popped it in his mouth, having to briefly juggle it with his tongue at the near scalding heat.

Telufinwë smiled. "Deer." The smile turned into one of chagrin. "Sorry. We both thought you would appreciate hot food instead of dried rations. It is all we have had this past week."

Maitimo nodded, gesturing for them to sit and they both kneeled down in front of him, taking their ease. "My stomach appreciates it, at least."

"Our apologies also it is just meat," Pityafinwë added with a grimace. "We wanted to prepare more, but know not enough of the vegetation in these mountains yet."

He snorted. "Methinks we left fine dining behind us in Tirion. But it will come again when we settle." He looked between them as he ate another slice. "You cooked this?"

Both of them nodded. "We joined the hunting expeditions after you dismissed the council," said Pityafinwë, and Maitimo finally noticed the fatigued set of his shoulders. "With the others organizing your delegation or speaking with you in Makalaurë's case, or Carnistir being Carnistir in his case, we had to keep active. We found plenty of game and delivered it to the cooks to be distributed, but believed you should have hot food ere setting out tomorrow. The cook even demanded we take the best of the deer meat for you," he added with a wry grin.

"Well, as I said, my stomach assuredly appreciates the fresh meal."

"The way Carnistir goes on, it will be your last," said Telufinwë.

"Where is the rodent?"

"The eastern ridge, last we saw," supplied Pityafinwë. "He was organizing the distribution of skins of water and tinder sheaves, but we saw him leaving the immediate camp when we returned from hunting."

Maitimo began eating a little quicker. "I want the two of you to be there for Makalaurë while I am gone. Leading the Noldor even for a couple of weeks at the level Atar did will be a task for him, at least at first I think, but especially with the state the Noldor are in now. He commands those who marched under his banner, but they are just a portion of the Host. Do as he bids."

"You know we will," they both assured.

Maitimo nodded. "I know." He cast a fond gaze over them both. "Off with you now," he went on, his voice softer. "You both need rest. Our embassy may be walking into potential danger, but the Noldor remaining shall be trekking the mountains back to the Lake even as we journey across the steppes. And after the ordeals of this day, everyone is in need of rest. Take advantage of the calm of the fissure."

They both nodded in concession, though reluctantly, and rose to their feet. Maitimo watched them disappear beyond the range of the campfire's light, though being silhouetted by the many others, and swiftly finished what remained of the unseasoned meat.

Carnistir, to Maitimo's relief, was still at the eastern ridge when he set out on his second hunt for him after returning the bowl and offering his fire to Elves visibly in want of its warmth. He was grateful, however, that none had interrupted his walk to ask him questions or for some sense of direction. All the warriors would soon know of what was happening, probably by the time he returned.

The eastern ridge, as his father had dubbed it, was but one of the more reclusive precipices that overlooked the slope of the mouth of the Ehtelë Sirion Pass and the depressing plains that stretched out beyond it unto Moringotto's Dwelling itself. Or unto that Thangorodrim place. There was no shield from the harsh buffeting of wind here and Maitimo could swear he smelled the scent of burnt coal, of all things, on said wind. Carnistir sat on a fallen trunk that looked to be half rotted, leaning on his knees as he absently toyed with what looked like a splinter of bark.

Carnistir looked up as Maitimo approached, his face still as dark as when he had last seen it, though now more subdued. His brother averted his gaze, lowering it. "Sorry," he muttered.

"You should be." Maitimo came close and stood above him, declining to sit on the spacious log. He crossed his arms, looking down at Carnistir with a solemn gravity that belied the stringent undertone in his voice. "You need to gather your wits, Carnistir. Upon our births it was and still is our burden to both our people and Atar to place ourselves last, even should it mean creating the perception of having a cold heart. You know I would be the last to disparage how to react to everything happening, but everyone is hanging on by but a thread, damn it."

Carnistir still refused to look at him, his jaw clenching and fingers moving faster. "You are no better."

"I know."

"You are doing just as Atar did."

Maitimo raised an eyebrow at that and, when no answer was forthcoming, Carnistir looked up, eyes blazing in a mixture of anger and anxiety. "It is true," he insisted harshly, fingertips beginning to break the bark apart. "He set before himself one path with one end and obsessed with every step of it. And look at what it gained him!" His brow was furrowed, eyes dark, and Maitimo absently reflected that for all the vast differences in their temperaments, Makalaurë and Carnistir had ever been the two unable to wholly suppress so extreme an emotion as grief when it was granted the opportunity to erupt. "So far ahead of the van he ran that he charged unto a throng of those Valaraukar. Valar, did he even see where he was going?" The pitch of his voice rose to an incredulous note.

"You can be upset with Atar for any ill judgment later," Maitimo retorted mildly. "Besides, far more stable and less clouded is my mind than Atar's was, and you know I am proceeding with this parley with as much caution as can be conceived."

Carnistir looked at him again, eyes sparking and maybe even shimmering with moisture, though it was difficult to tell in this dark. "You come back," he gritted out. "Slay you twenty Orcs or no, you come back."

There was a pause. Maitimo returned his harsh gaze with an unreadable one of his own, but then he reached out and grabbed a fistful of Carnistir's jerkin, hauling him to his feet with a jerk and pulling him into a tight embrace, tucking his raven head under his chin. "You know I will, Moryo," he whispered in his ear. "As I fear I must keep stressing until our departure, I have no will to die just yet, or to lead those who accompany me to theirs. My word is as powerful as an oath sworn when I say we will turn and flee come the first sign of Moringotto breaking his own covenant, if he does. I promise. Have that much faith in me, at least, Moryo. Because the Valar know that I would rather return home to the Host now."

Despite his intransigence, Carnistir returned the embrace, nearly robbing Maitimo of his breath from how fiercely he did. Maitimo could not resist a fond smile, for as Makalaurë had at the spring, Carnistir now clung to him as he had not since he was a child. But then, mayhap a time such as this was high strung with emotions extreme and crippling enough as to make any person regress back unto an easier mindset like that.

Maitimo released him, rubbing his back and trying to impart some comfort. "Come. We need to be with the Noldohossë right now, and the twins did some cooking you might find yourself willing to indulge in."

Though he did not hide his reluctance, he did as Maitimo bid and walked with him back to the heart of the fissure. Neither spoke a word, but Maitimo felt at peace with the silence, and he could feel Carnistir's volatile mood begin to lessen to a simmer during the calm hike along the narrow pathway.

It only lasted until they entered the fissure, for the moment they stepped off the path someone grabbed hold of Maitimo's upper arm and pulled until he either followed or was yanked off his feet. An angry retort on his lips, he looked over to find that it was Tyelkormo who had assaulted him, and though his brother met his gaze, he never released his vice-like grip.

Maitimo sighed, allowing himself to be manhandled. "What are you doing, Turko?" he demanded wearily.

Tyelkormo gave no answer until they were removed to another isolated space of the fissure beneath two towering pines. Maitimo saw that ferns had been collected and knitted into makeshift bedding. And a fire danced soothingly nearby. He opened his mouth to comment on the sight, but Tyelkormo spun him around, grabbed hold of both his arms and shoved him down onto the bed of ferns, placing an ankle behind his feet so that he would collapse beneath the push.

Tyelkormo looked down at him. "Sleep."

Maitimo glared up at him, uncertain whether to be affronted or amused. "Forgiven me too, have you?"

"No. But you need to sleep and have not slept since four days ago. So sleep."

With that, Tyelkormo lowered himself on a flat rock a whisper's distance away, removing one of his daggers and running a calloused thumb over its edge, most likely inspecting it for any nicks.

Maitimo raised a challenging eyebrow. "And what? For the whole night you purpose to watch over my resting body?"

"Sleep!"

Maitimo rolled his eyes, deciding it was not worth the effort. But as soon as he stretched out on the ferns, he was glad he had not argued further. He practically melted into the bedding and, turning on his side and resting his head on his folded arm, he relished in the comfort of his brother's presence as he slipped onto the path of dreams.

* * *

Atar = father (Sindarin equivalent _adar_ ), with hypocoristic _atto_ (S. _ada_ )  
Anatar = grandfather (Sindarin equivalent _daeradar_ ), with hypocoristic _anatto_ (S. _daerada_ )


	5. One Last Calm

Name Index:  
Telperinquar = Celebrimbor

* * *

 **Chapter 5:  
One Last Calm**

Makalaurë wondered how much of a heartless creep he must be being perceived as by his people. At least he thought they must be thinking of him as that, for he surely castigated himself with the accusation every moment he had a spell of self-reflection. He had done his best to mimic the example Maitimo set after descending from his solitude by the spring. He really had. What with putting on a cold face and quickly discovering that it was easier to just feel nothing at all, be the sentiment good or ill. He could hardly comprehend how Maitimo did it, how Maitimo did not simply collapse beneath the weight of it all and not rise. But he knew his brother, knew him a little too well right now maybe, and he could tell that Maitimo was simply frozen for the time being. Any person who knew even a morsel of their eldest brother could glean that this response of nonchalance was well beyond the line of abnormal and Makalaurë vaguely wondered what would happen when he unfroze, when the crashing of reality would overwhelm him and render him catatonic with the anguish he was somehow miraculously suppressing. He simply remained frozen within to do exactly what he had bidden his brothers to do. It was just so accursedly hard. But Makalaurë had to do it. He had to. Their father's death was already so devastating that he did not need the burden of shame to crown it.

It was just so hard.

Makalaurë stood near the edge of the eastern ridge's precipice, hair being impossibly tousled as the harsh winds whipped it with abandon. It would be a nightmare of knots to untangle later. But he paid it no heed, even as some strands occasionally thrashed across his face. He also paid no heed to the rancid scent of coal on the air, of all things, and reminded himself to ask Maitimo or a Master Healer about that particular peculiarity later. It would not do well if this high mountain air was unhealthy to breathe. But for now, he watched the sight before him at the base of the mountain slope far below in despondent silence.

A throng sixty warriors strong was moving out. Makalaurë knew that the three score of their people would have been impossible to see under the ubiquitous shroud of darkness if not for the torches they carried. Within an hour of their departure, Makalaurë had persuaded Maitimo to light a substantial amount of torches to aid the passage of their journey, at least for the first few leagues in.

"After all," he had said with more than a little sarcasm, "traveling in the dark as you will be, you could trip on a rock and break your neck."

Maitimo had been silent at that, a smile of chagrin quirking his lips, and he had heeded his counsel, deeming it to be reasonable enough. And now they marched. Their armor, immaculate in craftsmanship and glorious to look upon, reflected the light of the blue torches in a dancing illusion of silvery blues and whites. Makalaurë observed rather belatedly that it was the closest mirroring of starlight they had managed to achieve on this side of the mountains. Eight archers of the greatest shot, twelve spearmen of the swiftest strikes, one healer of quick hands amid the chaos of battle, and forty warriors bearing both sword and dirk of the strongest steel, one Commander and three Captains among them. And at the head of the company, now practically imperceptible to Makalaurë's eyes, walked his brother, taller than all accompanying him and Makalaurë could swear he spied the fiery hue of his lustrous hair in the light of the flames. And hanging by a guige to the back of every Elf was a kite shield, each bearing a heraldic device of either Fëanáro or one of his seven sons.

It was a magnificent sight, and Makalaurë hated it.

He felt a presence behind him but did not turn. For all that he loathed the sight, he could not for the life of him remove his eyes from the three score Noldor with his brother at the head just marching away. The hope he had committed himself to keep faith in was quickly dissipating, only to be replaced with a chilling dread that settled solidly in the pit of his stomach. He hated that too.

"The best warriors of the Noldohossë march with him." Curufinwë's words broke the wind-droning silence as he came and stood alongside Makalaurë. "He knows it not, though may guess it, but the Commanders and Tyelkormo have chosen prudently and had given all of the warriors a heavily worded speech. And I overheard Sornion giving them all another one after they assembled but before Maitimo arrived." A pensive look crossed his face. "Despite the apprehension I have over this, I actually feel confident in his protection. He indeed has the best of the guards with him."

"I know." Makalaurë may as well have been carved from stone for all he moved.

Curufinwë peered at him curiously, his eyes narrowed. "And you? Dare I ask if you are well? Or do I waste my breath?"

Makalaurë sighed, forcing his eyes away from the sight of the delegation and giving a resolute nod of his head. "Yes, I am, or I will be," he said. "Despite all my reservations, I still cannot dismiss the possibility that he just may be surrendering a Silmaril, unlikely as it is."

One of Curufinwë's eyebrows quirked up slightly. "Believe you he is?"

Makalaurë winced. "I want to say yes," he slowly went on after a moment. "The alternative is too horrible for me to just believe he does not."

Curufinwë grunted. "If they in truth carry a Silmaril, Maitimo will take it and kill them. If this is indeed a ruse, then Maitimo will order to turn tail like a cowering dog and run as fast as their adrenaline may carry them. Simple. The less details in a plan, the less chances of something going wrong."

Makalaurë made a face at him. "Not like a cowering dog," he protested lightly.

"It will seem like it to Moringotto."

"Well, my apologies to His Dark Majesty, but at present I could not care less what he would think of us."

Curufinwë gave a chuckle, though it was halfhearted and bleak. He shifted in his stance, crossing his arms against the frigid wind. "We will be ready to move within an hour. Vëantur is organizing the divisions for the journey as we speak. Yánadur would fain remain with you, however, or so he requested of me. What shall I tell him?"

Makalaurë gave a minute shake of his head, his focus still on the delegation growing more and more distant. "No. I want him to return to the Grey Fields. Those left behind of the King's Guard will remain with me along with the select few ordered by Tyelkormo and Carnistir. All of the Noldohossë otherwise is to leave for the encampment."

Curufinwë nodded. "I leave with them," he informed. "If you allow it. I know it would be a battle in convincing Tyelkormo and Carnistir to go."

"Thus why I do not." He looked at Curufinwë. "Go with them. Take the twins with you. The rest of the Host will need to be told of what has happened and is happening. It is only proper that some of Atar's sons be there to tell it."

Curufinwë was nodding, his face a mask of contemplation. "It is part of why I go. I need to tell Telperinquar that Atar is gone." He closed his eyes, dismay lining every part of his body. "Only once before have I so dreaded having to face my son."

Makalaurë cringed. "What will you tell him?"

Curufinwë sighed wearily and shrugged. "That his grandfather went to be with his own father, I suppose. It is true enough."

Makalaurë echoed the sigh but was silent. He reached out in the end, resting a comforting hand on his shoulder and squeezing. "Journey safely, brother."

"I shall." He shot Makalaurë a dry look. "Pray return you will Nelyo and the others unharmed."

"Násië," Makalaurë fervently muttered.

O = O = O

The first five or so leagues of the journey were without incident, much to the company's relief. There were no stars visible by which to measure their progress, a technique all had adapted to and then grown rather adept at accomplishing during the Darkening of Valinor, but each Noldo yet carried in their mind the remembered length of days, and so knew that they had covered the expansive stretch of the first three and a half leagues in about a day, more or less. With no steeds to bear them across the steppes and with the considerable weight of armor and weapons and ten days' worth of rations and water to carry, Maitimo considered the completed stretch of the journey to be a fair achievement when accounting for the factors against them.

One of them being that he and all of the sixty other Noldor were completely unacquainted and unknowing of the land they now trekked. When his father had drawn ahead of the van of the Noldohossë and been thus waylaid by these Valaraukar, he, Maitimo and his brothers, and the host they had led to their father's aid had scarcely been three leagues from the security of the mountains and into these life-forsaken plains. And the traversing of those three leagues were the only morsels of knowledge they had attained of what the vast stretch of land unto Moringotto's Dwelling might entail, a gathering of knowledge that had been greatly hindered by their urgency to first reach their king swathed in Valaraukar fire, and then to withdraw with all speed back to the mountains not three days ago. But despite their blindness and literal journeying into the unknown, Sornion had been fairly accurate in his halfhearted postulating of what they might encounter to the place appointed.

The last two leagues they had just finished crossing were just about an immaculate replication of those first three leagues, though it did not make the suffering of the wayfaring any more tolerable unto the fëar of the Elves. The windswept plains became so oppressive in their lifelessness and so deafening in their unnatural silence that many Noldor had attested on the first legs of the journey to feel a spell of madness being to touch them. It had been and still yet was vastly desired to raise even one voice in Elven song, and even Maitimo craved the appeasement such beauty would impart to his fëa, but even those who murmured their yearning to sing knew how high of a risk it would impose to their safety. All sixty accompanying Maitimo had been carefully apprised of the need to conceal just how many Noldor actually marched to the appointed place.

But such caution had not made the trek any more pleasant. The steppes were flat and resultantly permitted them to see for over a league out, as Maitimo had predicted, and he knew that the furthest reach of their sight was not ended by the bend of the horizon or a terrestrial obstruction like rocks. It was simply the land beyond the one league mark being swallowed up by the darkness that seemed even more pronounced in the distance. Maitimo frowned at it more than once, intensely enough that it had caught Sornion's attention, but Maitimo only shook his head at him. "Keep moving," he murmured. And they did. But though they were appreciative for the lack of impediment on the steppes, there was not one tree to be seen. Not even a tree that might be dead or dying. There was simply nothing. Not a shrub. Not a stream. Not even a field mouse. So much had been scorched and destroyed in the passing of Moringotto's army.

"It is well we brought water with us," Sornion had said sarcastically during one of the resting periods. Maitimo could not disagree with that. He knew they could dig deep into the surface of the steppes and would most probably find water, but they neither had the tools nor the time for it. The water they carried would have to be severely rationed and they would all be dehydrated by the time they returned to Ehtelë Sirion, but it would be just enough if they were careful.

Maitimo kept them at a forced march, one that was not a run but nor was it a leisurely walk. The forward scouts were ever abroad, rotating their shifts to report in and always reconnoitering the land up to a league ahead of the embassy for any new change to the geography they must account for or any potential enemy activity. Every three hours Maitimo bid them halt their progress to rest for a spell and quench any thirst. And at the nine hour mark he allotted two hours to acquire a more fulfilling rest if any desired, as well as to eat their rations of desiccated meats. At each break the five divisions, twelve Elves each with one appointed Captain shared for every two, congregated into their own groups to provide an easier and swifter rotation of shifts for the Elves to take watch. And the quiet hum of conversation drifted among them, most exchanges of words barely rising above a whisper, as though in fear of their talk being heard across the deathly silence of the steppes and unto Moringotto's Dwelling itself.

Come the time of each rest, Maitimo conferred with Sornion and the Captains to learn of their delegation's progress, of the wellbeing of their fëar as much as their hröar. And they were well. Granted, they loathed the shadowed horror that felt like a ubiquitous pall over the plains and occasionally shivered at the unnatural chill on the wind that kept on blasting from the east and north, but they were well. And Maitimo often found himself just standing there to consciously bear witness to such steadfast valor, for he would not have had the heart to blame any one of them if they had quaked in their boots at the realization at every rest period of just how much closer they were to the Enemy.

It was now time for one of those periodic rests and Maitimo walked among the five divisions, gauging what he could from their faces beneath strong helms, though some had doffed them as they sat. They seemed subdued, but at peace, or as much at peace as they could be out here.

In the division comprised of those from the King's Guard, most of whom were on watch right now, Maitimo spied Aráto sitting a short distance away, though within the perimeter, shield and spear resting beside him along with his dusty helm. Though but a calling's distance away, he was alone and as Maitimo approached, he looked up and shifted to rise but Maitimo waved him back down.

"Standing on ceremony is absurd on this particular venture." Maitimo lowered himself next to the Captain, unclipping his scabbard from his hip and contenting himself with holding the sheathed sword in his lap. He too doffed his helm, wincing as strands of hair caught on the crevices, but he relished in the cool freshness of the stale, murky air upon his head. He cast a shrewd look at the guard and took a deep breath, once again baffled as to why he tasted something like burnt sediment upon every inhale of this air. "Five leagues covered, eleven more to go," he commented mildly.

Aráto nodded distractedly, looking out into the far distance. His face was a mask of equanimity, but Maitimo could sense the mounting disquiet within him. "This place feels dead," he finally said, lips pursed in displeasure.

Maitimo huffed. "It is dead."

Aráto gave no response, only a narrowing of his blue eyes, and Maitimo wondered what had him so distracted. His answer was soon in coming, for Aráto all of the sudden raised a hand gauntleted in hardened leather, something generally worn only by those of the Pilindossë, and pointed northeastward. "See you the red in the far distance?"

Maitimo followed his eyes to where the Host had long presumed laid the abode of Moringotto. He squinted to better see, but it was just so accursedly dark. Nevertheless, he saw what Aráto was referring to. Maitimo knew by the intellect of his father that there were mountains out there, vast and probably impregnable if Moringotto dwelled in them. But, as always, the only portion of the mountains they could effortlessly see come any time they looked northeast were those three towering ones clustered together like a crown. But riding above and in which those three towers looked to pierce their peaks into were dark and churning gales, which seemed to endlessly grow more thick and ominous, as though accumulating. Even from here he could catch the wrathful rumbling of thunder – it was not difficult to hear in the silence of the empty steppes. But though the black clouds were brightened only when shots of what Maitimo presumed was scattered lightning tore through them, the pervasive gales seemed to glow in places with a dark red, appearing and disappearing, and occasionally shifting to a more crimson hue.

"Yes," he answered gravely. "I see it."

"Know you what it is?"

Maitimo shook his head. "To echo Yánadur, nothing pleasant probably. Mayhap at the place appointed we will see it more clearly, but really, when we have no manner of light to see by it is difficult to see anything of that dark place, save Thangorodrim."

"Thangorodrim," he repeated slowly, as though trying out the word on his tongue. "Though named by the Orc-speaker, is that what we shall call it, then?"

"Perhaps. It is as good a name as any, whatever it means. And it is at least more identifiable than merely saying 'those three peaks' every time. We will have to ask the Mithrim what it means."

Aráto huffed in slight amusement. "Ever had you the thought, my prince, that Moringotto purposed to mock Lord Manwë with this…Thangorodrim?"

Maitimo raised an eyebrow at him. "If you refer to Oiolossë, then yes." He looked back at Thangorodrim, pursing his lips slightly. "It was my sire who first put forth the suggestion and I doubted his words at first, for reasons I will not elaborate on here. But each time I look at them now, I grow more and more certain he may have been correct in naming the comparison of Thangorodrim to Manwë's abode."

Aráto sighed, eyebrows drawing down into a deep frown. "I have a feeling that King Fëanáro foretold many things unwittingly." He turned to Maitimo. "Do you believe that he will actually surrender a Silmaril, Highness?"

Maitimo looked at him at the abrupt change in conversation but did not need to hesitate long to formulate an answer. "No," he sighed. "Or so believes most of my heart while the sliver remaining clings to the hope that he does." He turned an inquisitive glance on Aráto. "Do you?"

"Yes." Maitimo's face morphed into ill-concealed incredulity and Aráto gave him a discreet smile. "Someone has to," he added softly.

Maitimo shook his head. "It is not that I want to disbelieve it. The idea that he does just seems too good to be true, that he would concede defeat so quickly. Concede defeat so readily and easily after everything the Noldor have been through, that Moringotto subjected us to…." He paused, a shadow entering his eyes. "After everything we have done to see ourselves here," he added in a lower tone, "it feels all to have been in vain if he yields now. Truly, I would gladly reclaim my father's Jewels here and now and see justice delivered unto the Valar's kinsman and not look back. But since his release from Mandos we know now that Moringotto had been plotting away, and now only begins to unleash the means to accomplish whatever schemes he came up with. And we can only fathom how much longer he had waited when in Mandos or even earlier to mayhap when Time as we know it was nonexistent." He looked at Aráto skeptically. "And now he yields?" He shook his head, a lilt of bitter mockery entering his tone. "I cannot believe it, not when he has finally escaped the Valar's grasp. Yes, I can believe that Moringotto considers us a nuisance, no matter the number of our Host and yes, I can believe that he would appease us by whatever means of his choice if it results in the Noldor leaving him alone to bring to fruition whatever ill design he deems we stand in the way of. And that is the sole reason part of me retains the belief that Moringotto just might actually surrender a Silmaril eleven leagues from here. But the doubt in my heart is still greater."

Aráto remained silent to that for a long while, his gaze clouded over in some passive contemplation. When the silence persisted, Maitimo believed their conversation to have ended and moved to rise with a sigh, but Aráto again turned to him just as he shifted to do so.

"Know you why I marched under the banner of your father, Prince Maitimo?"

Maitimo raised an eyebrow at, again, another sudden change in the conversation. But curiosity overcame him. "No."

Aráto opened his mouth to speak but hesitated, seeming to realize something unpleasant. "May I speak freely of him?"

Maitimo snorted. "Pray do. Plenty of others have."

"I have no dishonorable words to say of King Fëanáro," he reassured, and the depth of the sincerity in his voice caught Maitimo off guard. "No, I agreed not with every decision he made, and you saw me at Losgar when you confronted him after the ships ended their burn." Maitimo nodded and Aráto offered a faint smile, though it was tinged with remorse. "But if I was given the chance to go back and again decide under whose banner I should march, it still would have been your father's."

Maitimo waited, the side of his mouth quirking. "I know this is the part I ask why, so continue. Why?"

"Because he made me realize that the passion of your heart is only as great as the fruit it yields, no matter how many brushstrokes may corrupt the flawlessness of the dye on the canvas." He shrugged, his gaze pensive. "It made me reflect much on my own life while we were in Formenos."

Maitimo narrowed his eyes shrewdly. "You speak not of him making the Silmarils, do you?"

A knowing spark entered his eye, the ghost of a smile gracing his lips. "No. I speak of the fruit of his words, of the choices he made that were molded from that inner fire he was known for. And it made me ponder just what I had within me if not a passion of my own of that caliber. Mistake me not, Highness, for I was greatly honored to serve in the guard of Finwë Noldóran, but King Fëanáro taught me that the flowing of a river does not necessarily pave the path for the boats to float. That it is possible to swim against the current if my desire lay uphill instead of downstream like everyone else." He lowered his eyes, the timbre of his voice softening. "Doomed passion may be the most lamentable, yet it is the most powerful, I think. Do I walk a road that is safe but unfulfilling? Or do I walk a road fraught with danger but breathes life in me as I have never before tasted? The liberation of the latter is one of many things your sire proved to me, and to others I daresay. And for that, even knowing his wrongs, I would gladly march under his banner again."

Maitimo watched him as he spoke, his head tilted and softened eyes considerate. "Has it?"

"Has what?"

"Has our Flight truly breathed life in you, as you say?"

Aráto smiled more genuinely. "Yes," he said simply. "I find myself fascinated with this dark land. I know not if I will ever acquire that passion King Fëanáro had in droves, but I decided to come here and carve out a new life to see if I can find it, if I even have it. Though I will serve as your guard for as long as you will have me," he added lightly, but then he grew staid once more. "I only say this, my lord, as counsel to not so fast lose faith in what is perceived to be fallacious. Because of King Fëanáro we are here in Endórë, sleeping willingly with danger on our doorstep, and such a thing was inconceivable by the Amaneldi once upon a time. Who is to say the chance of Moringotto surrendering a Silmaril is ludicrous when we are able to sit here having this conversation? Besides," he added with a hint of mocking amusement, "mayhap to him we are a mere nuisance, and how often do we ourselves cast nuisances to the wayside if it means them no longer being a bother to you?"

Maitimo was quiet at such words, at the calm instilled in him to witness such high faith in something that carried so much foreboding of being faithless. He stared at Aráto, eyes softening. "Though my sire spoke seldom on this side of the Sea," Maitimo said solemnly, "know that he was honored to have such a stout companion at his side. As am I."

Aráto looked at him, and Maitimo could see in his eyes the effect the words had on him, for the humbled visage of one who was moved beyond words entered his expression. But simultaneously, the sorrow he had seen to suffocate the guard since his father's death grew prominent once more as his shoulders became tense and eyes shadowed over. And Maitimo had to stamp down on the will of his own heart to mirror the display before him. "Aráto." The guard seemed to be shaken from a daze at his voice and gave him his attention. "Be you ready to answer my summons upon our return to the Host. We need to talk after this."

Aráto's brow furrowed in both bemusement and alarm. "My prince?"

"After we return, Captain." Maitimo stood, clipping his blade to his sword belt again and donning his helm. "We must proceed on, though we can burn no more torches."

Aráto stood up at the instructions, manipulating the guige for his shield with quick hands. "I confess to being glad Prince Makalaurë convinced you to bear torches for part of the journey," he mentioned casually.

Maitimo nodded in reluctant agreement. "As am I. And I can see how the spirits of the Elves are uplifted by the little light. It is something of comfort among this dreary place." Maitimo's own fëa felt uplifted at the sight of the torch's blue flames as well, a hue they had decided upon for its subtlety during the night in comparison to red and orange flame. He was loath to see them go. But the time was nigh to go wholly unseen to the Enemy's eye.

"So," Aráto went on, clipping on his own sword. He raised an eyebrow. "Douse the lights?"

Maitimo nodded. "Douse the lights."

O = O = O

At ten leagues in the landscape began to change, something that quickly became a horror to Maitimo and those who led the five divisions. Covering the leagues with each steppe terrestrially looking the same as before, flat boring land after flat boring land, he had unconsciously begun to grow confident in Sornion's suppositions of what to maybe anticipate on this journey, namely nothing that they had not already seen. That they would maintain something of that advantage at least, an advantage of not walking into an entirely unknown place.

That hope that had been blooming more strongly with every passing league was now utterly gone.

Even with not one torch lit among them now, each could see how the once level landscape now began to break here and there by round and smooth boulders in no set pattern, some reaching an incredulous height. Maitimo had called the company to a halt immediately.

"We must be cautious," Sornion had said when they had all convened to discuss how to adapt to the problem, if they could. But even Sornion's eyes showed hints of doubt. "We have no stars to garner our sense of direction and if these boulders increase in number we may find ourselves lost within them."

"Thangorodrim is our bearing," Maitimo had said after a moment of consideration, nodding towards the dark silhouette. "We make our way towards it. But let us knit the divisions together to prevent the chance of being split by these boulders' layout."

And so they went on, proceeding more slowly and the frequency of the scouts' regular reports increasing in number.

At the twelve league mark, the suspicion and mounting dread in Maitimo's heart had become unbearable enough that he commanded an unscheduled halt. This new changing of the landscape had persisted with its scattered boulders, some massive and some miniscule, but they gradually increased in number, though still ranging between each other with a gap of thirty to a hundred paces, which was fortunate as far as Maitimo was concerned. But now there were rocky beds breaking the sward of scraggily ground, and Maitimo summoned Sornion who rushed quickly to his side.

"It is not that these new features of the steppes present a danger to us," Maitimo had said. "The beds we will have to cross cautiously, for I reckon their instability will be high. But call back the scouts fanning our forward flanks."

Sornion had slowly nodded after a moment, the keen glimmer in his eyes showing that he began to understand. "Maintaining the formation for the scouts will lose us time."

Maitimo returned the reluctant nod. "We have already slowed our march to account for the range of boulders. But heighten the alert of the van scouts. We have four leagues yet to travel, but unless our path is turned, Moringotto's embassy will be directly ahead."

"Do you suppose we may be entering the skirt of a new mountain range, my prince?" the Captain of the third division suggested.

Maitimo looked up and out to the silhouette of Thangorodrim that had become gradually bigger and more defined to his eye after all these leagues. He shook his head, absently twisting his jaw. It would certainly explain the multiple gigantic boulders. "I do not know," he answered with a sigh.

And it was true. Neither Maitimo nor any of their company knew what lay within these plains or beyond them. Save only those three peaks ever towering in the distance. Maitimo knew that it would be an intelligent decision to catalog the details of the lands they had traversed and yet will traverse, and to map the steppes' layout so far. Wholly blind to this new and outlandish land of Endórë, the Host needed all the gathering of knowledge they could obtain, whether from themselves or from their forsaken kin, whenever they would find them. But the task of mapping seemed frivolous in light of where they marched to and why they marched there to begin with. And so Maitimo refused to order it and even Sornion, who his father had unerringly appointed at some time during their wandering of Hísilómë as the Master of Scouts, not even he had challenged his lord's decision to forego mapping. And looking at his Second's face and the dark gravity in his eyes, Maitimo knew that the same thoughts must be running through Sornion's own mind.

Just beyond the fourteen league mark, Maitimo ordered a final rest and allotted three hours for it, bidding the Noldor to obtain as much rest as they could, though he knew that task would be difficult to achieve and he did not blame them. Whereas before the three score Elves had been well enough in morale, their sense of anticipation had tangibly heightened and he hardly would have been surprised if every one of their hearts was beating a little harder. Sleep, he figured, would most probably remain far from them. But they had to rest. If they were to engage tomorrow then they needed to be ready in body, if not wholly in spirit. But Thangorodrim now loomed before them, more obvious than any could have perceived it to be before, and Maitimo often found himself staring at those peaks in dreaded wonder.

Because if they were not yet even halfway across the steppes and this Thangorodrim was still at twice the distance they traveled…just how large were these mountains in truth? The majesty of Oiolossë stood forefront in his mind and Maitimo still reckoned that nothing could outshine the glorious divinity of Manwë's highest mountain, but there were three of these dark towers. And the unending sight of them, growing ever larger to the eye, was as devastating as Manwë's was magnificent. But instead of the one mountain that was Manwë's, Moringotto had three. His father's speculation of implied mockery and Aráto's reaffirmation of it echoed in Maitimo's mind, and he now had great difficulty in doubting that it just might be true, for all that Fëanáro had mentioned it in passing.

At fifteen leagues the tension of the embassy was practically palpable. Maitimo was compelled to maintain confidence in his face and he knew by the steadfast steps in the Elves' gate that it reassured them. And with only a mere few hours left of marching, Maitimo convened those of command one last time to initiate their plan.

"Commander Sornion," he said. "Recall all the scouts and send ahead the three you recommended flanked with their spotters. They know of the plan, but I just recalled a detail. Tell them ere they run to look out for a possible banner bearing a heraldic device."

Sornion raised an eyebrow. "I remember you saying how Moringotto's embassy flew a banner. What was the emblem?"

"I do not know. It was too dark to see. And it may be a device only the Valar would recognize, for all we know. But the banner stood at nigh twice the height of an Orc, and the three scouts might spot it peaking between the boulders before seeing the embassy itself." Sornion nodded his understanding and Maitimo turned his attention to the Captains. "Narrow the march," he spoke simply. It was all the command they needed. With hasty bows they left to fulfill his orders. And lastly he looked at the Captain of the King's Guard, standing silently off to his right. "Bid your guards to stand fast by my side."

Aráto nodded gravely at the quietly spoken words and left also.

The plan was simple, but it did not lessen the apprehension. Maitimo felt the beginning surges of adrenaline rushing through his own limbs and the next hour of marching seemed to go abnormally slow. Maitimo made it a repetition in his mind that the plan was good enough, for the fewer details and complicated maneuvers a plan needed to be functional and effective, the fewer chances there were of something going wrong. Narrowing the march was simply the five divisions forming into a line that was headed by Maitimo and Sornion, weaving about boulders and over rock beds that obstructed their path like a wiggling worm. The three scouts selected by Sornion would take point and scout ahead with the spotters, whose bows were held at the ready to guard the scouts from any unsuspecting assault. And the scouts' orders were simple: determine exactly where this embassy of Moringotto's waited for them and whether they actually numbered only twenty. Or if this really was a sly design to kill the heir of Fëanáro. For Maitimo's instructions still held firm to turn around and retreat if there was but one Orc more.

The only element Maitimo felt positive about was that they had yet to sight the distinguished glow of fire that emitted from those Valaraukar. The hope to see a league in advance was thwarted by the obstruction in the changes of the landscape, curse it all, but the Valaraukar were not particularly capable in the art of concealment. If those beasts were among Moringotto's delegation, the scouts and, really, all of the Elves should have seen their diabolical glow by now, should have by now felt the unique surge of Darkness they exuded, and Maitimo felt a brief swell of relief that they had not.

When less than an hour remained to march, Maitimo called a halt. The final halt. Maitimo drew in a steady, deep breath, letting it out just as slowly. Now they would wait for however long they must for the scouts to return with their report. Just wait. Wait and wait and wait. Maitimo reflected sourly that waiting had to be the worst part of launching an assault.

The three score of Elves behind him were silent as he had never heard them before and Maitimo turned where he stood at ease, casting a cursory glance over them. Swords remained sheathed, but there was not one blade not loosened from its scabbard and every Elf had a ready hand on the hilt. Bows that had remained strung for the whole journey were now nocked with arrows, though lowered, and spears were hefted. Despite that they may have to wait for hours until the return of the scouts, the Noldor were ready. Their eyes were bright with the light of battle and their sturdy stances belied the tension Maitimo knew they had to be feeling. He felt it himself. And they waited.

He looked up at the black gales above that churned and rumbled all the louder and found himself hoping desperately that the clouds would indeed stay knitted together as tightly as they were and would not allow even a glimmer of starlight through. If Moringotto was really surrendering a Silmaril, it was now paramount that the full number of the Elven force remained hidden from his embassy, lest they fled at the evidence of a broken truce before the Noldor could slay them and reclaim the Jewel. And any starlight would reflect off their armor, giving both the size and location of their company away. Let the smothering of this darkness last just an hour more, Maitimo inwardly entreated.

And they waited.

* * *

Násië: "Amen!"  
Celebrimbor: no date of his birth or any evidence of exact age is provided, only that he was alive and an adult at the time of Finrod's departure with Beren from Nargothrond. The chronology of this particular story in respect to the canonical timeline infers Celebrimbor being born in Formenos.


	6. To Purpose Evil unto Evil

.

 **Chapter 6:** **  
** **To Purpose Evil unto Evil**

Maitimo's eyes grew unfocused as he ran every possible factor of the plan a thousand and one times through his head, but their distracted state cleared as he looked up at the light pitter-patters of running. One of the spotters emerged from the darkness and veered in his projected path to head straight for Maitimo after searching him out. Maitimo lifted his chin. "The scouts return?" he lightly called.

"Yes, Highness! Just behind me." The Elf slowed down to a brisk walk.

There was a stir among the warriors behind Maitimo, a drastic difference from the near dead silence that had lasted for a good hour. There were no exchanges of words, not even soft murmurs, but there was a lot of shuffling of feet and armaments. Maitimo forced himself to keep his eyes straight ahead, taking another steady breath.

"How can you be so calm?" Sornion suddenly whispered in his ear, and Maitimo could hear the tight anxiety in his voice.

He gave a faint smile. "It helps if you are terrified," he whispered back out of the corner of his mouth. Sornion snorted and Maitimo fought to maintain a straight face. By Aulë, was he that nervous that he was able to find dark humor during such a time as this? Nothing about their situation was funny.

Maitimo kept his gaze directed straight ahead and before long, tall and dark shapes emerged from the shadows between the high rocks. Three of them with the other two spotters following behind, all of the Elves bearing either sword or bow as they materialized fully out of the darkness and came to stand before Maitimo, saluting to him. The silence behind Maitimo was so tense that he could practically feel it against his back.

"Well?" Maitimo looked from one to the other, proud at how untroubled he managed to sound.

"They are there, Prince Maitimo," reported the scout who stood in the middle. His face was carefully composed, though his eyebrows drew down slightly. "Twenty is their number."

A hushed murmur rose among the Noldor and Maitimo was pressed to keep the jolt of surprise from showing in his own face. Valar, not surprise. More like shock that rapidly grew. He could hardly believe it….

"I cannot believe it," Aráto muttered from his right, voice liberally coated in astonishment. Maitimo made a face at him. So much for someone having to believe that Moringotto was being honest.

Sornion shifted, glancing quickly at Maitimo before turning an appraising yet troubled look on each of the scouts. "You broadened your search?"

"Yes, Commander. These rocks differ further in than those we have seen thus far, but we expanded our search a furlong out from his delegation and there was no sign of any further spawn of the Enemy. We sensed something at bay, like a darkness or something, but we could only attribute it to Moringotto's delegation. After knowing that there was that Orc-Maia-person among the embassy you encountered, Highness, we wondered if there might not be one among the twenty."

Maitimo turned the information over in mind with a slight frown, glancing beyond the scouts. He knew he did not need to ask if the scouts had been spotted by the Orcs or if they saw all truly, but he wished the embassy was in sight to see it for himself.

Sornion looked sidelong at Maitimo, his eyes narrowed. "Would that be a breaking of the agreement?"

That was what Maitimo was trying to decide. After several more moments of consideration he slowly shook his head, his frown deepening. "No," he answered, unsure at first, but his voice started to sound more certain. "It may simply be the Orc-speaker again. It is not so absurd to believe he would head Moringotto's delegation a second time when we need someone to communicate with, much as why there was a Maia with the first embassy. If there is a Maia among them, it may be out of necessity. But," he added sharply, turning his attention back on the scouts, "such conjecture depends on the purpose of their presence. Saw you the Silmaril?"

All of the expressions of the scouts morphed into something very uncertain, many exchanging glances, all the while avoiding Maitimo's gaze. "No, Highness," the middle scout replied. "So wholly bright as it is, such a Jewel would shine as nothing else in this darkness, but we saw not even a glimmer of Light, of any light."

Maitimo released a small sigh, his lips pressing together as he considered that as well. He opened his mouth to speak but hesitated, suddenly feeling the hefty, discomforting gazes of over sixty Elves on him. "Mayhap it is covered," he mused. "Just possibly. I make no excuse for them, but we are still learning about these Orcs and their assault on the Host supports the idea."

The Captain of the second division looked at him in confusion. "Why would they cover it, Prince?"

Maitimo's eyebrows hiked up as he turned to him, a wry grin tugging at his mouth. "Look above us, Captain." Though it was more of a rhetorical instruction, every Elf did anyway, casting curious glances at the sky. "These dark clouds have yet to part since our first crossing over the mountains, though they seemed to have stopped instead of proceed on into Hísilómë. The Orcs cannot tolerate even a meager amount of starlight and the majesty of my father's Jewels exceeds the brilliance of them all. They may just find themselves blinded looking upon Silmaril Light."

There was more than one snort of derision, but several quick nods followed and part of Maitimo could not help but wonder if they trusted his speculation because he possessed the most intimate knowledge of the Silmarils of all there, perhaps second only to Fëanáro himself, or because he was the high commander on this venture and they were supposed to.

Maitimo dismissed the idle musing, turning to face the mass of Elves and he could not deny feeling a quick swell of pride at their ready stances and calm composure. He took one more breath of resolve. "Let us do this, my good companions. I would have no one suffer wounds, nor anyone be slain. When in arrow's reach and upon my command, those of you among the Pilindossë give them a volley at the Captain's call. To the rest the assault will follow swiftly from there, so be ready."

"What of the Silmaril, my lord?" called a warrior over on their left flank.

"We will search their carcasses after the deed is done. But be you all ready to hasten back upon our path, for I wager the Enemy will be wroth at our subterfuge. I would rather us be back among the Host to face whatever new design he would unleash on us. Now," he finished up, turning around once again and nodding at the scouts to take point, "let us march."

They continued with the scouts positioned at the van to lead them on the quickest path, the ever persistent rumbling of rolling thunder above them. The final legs of the crossing seemed to pass within no time at all, though Maitimo knew it to have been over an hour at least.

The scouts' forewarning of the landscape had been accurate, however; before long the Noldor found themselves treading a bed of rocks so thick that barely any of the wild grass underneath managed to poke its way through. Yet the rock bed was curtained not only by the massive boulders they had bypassed now for six leagues, but also the new formation of rock the scout had mentioned. And some towering as tall as the height of alders, these rocks looked like the wave of a churning sea immobilized during its crashing upon a cliff, for this dark, almost black sediment spiked high and broad from the ground in many long, tapered teeth. This could not be any natural rock, Maitimo wanted to swear, and if it was, it seriously made him want to question many things that had been unquestionable before. But the darkness persisted in its smothering essence and though the Elves were lanternless and encumbered by the wide bed of rocks, they were not weary and Maitimo knew all their senses were heightened. They progressed more slowly, making very little sound despite all the armor and steel they bore, and the scouts soon returned with word that the embassy was just ahead.

Soon enough, broad and stout forms easily recognizable as the hunched profiles of Orcs began to take shape in the dark and Maitimo held up a clenched fist, stopping. The company slowed to an immediate halt and the silence that fell over them was deafening, making the wind blasting against them from the east and whistling through the rocks even louder. They all waited, but the Orcs were still. Maitimo's eyes quickly grew accustomed to them in the dark and he could see indeed that there were only twenty of them. Twenty exactly. His eyes flicked back and forth, peering and searching.

A deep frown creased Maitimo's brow as he stared at them, a seed of foreboding budding deep in his chest. Something was wrong.

There was no Silmaril among them. Yes, it might have been covered for the reasons he had suggested. And it was highly believable that the Orcs would cover such a caging of Light if they could not even stand just a little starlight. But Maitimo had been there during the Jewels' making, had been one of the few his father had permitted to see them, and he had always lived within their vicinity up until the time they had been stolen from the vault. He knew the holy resonance of the Silmarils on an intimate level, knew them as well as the beat of his own heart. It was a resonance burned permanently into the well of his memory and a resonance he could not now sense among the group of Orcs. Something was wrong.

"Hail Nelyafinwë, King to Be!"

The Orc-speaker. Though Maitimo was not above disbelieving anymore that Moringotto might have other Maiar at his beck and call perfectly capable in speaking Quenya, he recognized that grating voice he had heard only once before. The lead Orc of the delegation shifted in the dark, the others behind him stirring in that familiar manner of Orc impatience.

Maitimo did not yield a return answer, refused to, and that foreboding that now felt like a solid rock in his chest grew stronger.

Because he was baffled. Why send the promised number of twenty but not have the Silmaril? Why send twenty and not have the Jewel with them to surrender when Moringotto must have known it would only result in his Orcs being slain for so obviously breaking their pledge? Yes, it was a bitter and rancid disappointment to truthfully know without a doubt now that Moringotto had lied, but Maitimo could not pretend to be surprised. They had all known the high improbability of it. But what flabbergasted him was that Moringotto had still sent only a score of Orcs. For what?

To not send a Silmaril with them, but still send forth only twenty. It was completely illogical. Therefore, there was only one logical conclusion to make:

He had not.

"Retreat."

The word barely passed his lips, but every Elf seemed to hear it and he could sense their reaction to his single word without even having to look. But Maitimo kept his gaze firmly on the score of Orcs a hundred paces out, his breaths quickening.

"My prince?"

He did not know who spoke, probably Sornion, but he stepped back himself, the Elves directly behind him forced to shuffle back as well. "Retreat!" he again commanded in a harsh whisper. "They have no Silmaril!"

"But they number only tw–"

" _Retreat!_ "

No one wasted a moment longer to do as Maitimo bid, appearing to take his words at face value and not questioning the urgency in their prince's voice when they outnumbered the Orcs before them by three. Not even Sornion tossed him a look of enquiry before his commanding voice was ringing out over the Noldor, his tone edged with a new, more dreadful form of anxiety that had not been there before. But before the Noldor could do more than shift their feet to turn about, the eerie silence of the night was shattered, but not by the slithering draw of Orcish weapons as they might have assumed would happen.

Without warning, the earth quaked wrathfully beneath their feet, literally shifting and making the stones of the rock bed tumble over each other. After several hasty steps with his feet, Maitimo fell to his knees at the sudden unstableness of the ground and winced in pain at the impact. The muttered curses he heard around him told him that he was not the only one to have collapsed. Elves were yelling in a blurring mixture of shock and consternation behind him, Sornion's voice the loudest of them all, but the booming quakes in the ground were too deafening for Maitimo to comprehend anything of what they shouted. But even as he was being hoisted to his feet by fierce grips on his arms, Maitimo's eyes were compellingly drawn upward as a sudden mass of darkness gathered rapidly overhead. Clouds, dark and impenetrable and so many of them conglomerated above like a veil and a scream ripped from Maitimo's throat as, without any warning again, he was suddenly smote in fëa by the tendrils of a Chaos that felt to shred apart the whole of his being. Distantly behind him, Maitimo could hear similar cries of dozens of Elves blend with his own.

Whatever that horror was soon ended. Come now, Maitimo inwardly castigated, regain your wits! He shuffled to stand on both feet again – on somewhat steadier ground, though it still rumbled and trembled – and he drew in a deep breath to shout at the Elves to run.

Just as the sounds of the first syllable emerged from his throat, a monstrous noise roared from their right, louder than anything Maitimo had ever heard before. And a couple hundred paces east of their position, the green, rock-strewn ground split open into mighty ravines from which immediately issued forth billows of rancid smoke. Smoke that swiftly blasted away as a great flare of light shot up against the background of the darkened East and the ravines lit with that familiar diabolical glow of red.

A very familiar glow of red.

Maitimo felt his heart climb up in his throat as he watched aghast as those they named Valaraukar emerged from the depths of the ravines. Four of them. Four! Maitimo could barely breathe, his heart racing wildly, and he began screaming again without restraint for the host of warriors to flee. To flee and fly fast, curse it all to the Void!

"To the steppes and do not stop! Move! Sornion, to the van and keep them moving!" The panic in his voice could not be suppressed, nor did he care.

They ran.

But something soon happened to slow the company to an abrupt stop, an issuance of a command to halt by the rearguard Captain. Maitimo surged forward as far as he could, forcing himself through several bodies and looking over the helms to see what impeded them to actually stop, because Valar, they could not stop! The frantic desperation among the Noldor was now very real and Maitimo had no idea what to say or do. Their only option was to run. Just run. Maitimo narrowed his eyes, straining them to peer into that swiving darkness to see just what the problem was.

He felt his heart stop.

A throng of Orcs that must have been three hundred strong were marching up on their rear, not even half a furlong away, and their cadence barely carried through the massive rocks, despite the steppes being as flat as a platter. Even as the beasts ran with the adrenaline of battle in their uncouth step, the Valaraukar, four of them at twice the height of their Elven statures, shifted from their emergence from the pits in the ravines and came to the fore, trampling all manners of the foliage underfoot as they moved towards the rear right flank of the Elven host, nefarious growls rumbling from deep within them while their dark fire and blazing manes casted a raw shadow of horror over the whole expanse of land that the storm clouds above could not even begin to contend.

Maitimo was unable to do anything, not a damn thing as he watched the sight unfold. He saw the raw panic alight on Aráto's face, even Sornion's at the ambush that had materialized within the space of a matter of breaths. Shouts rang out, Maitimo's among them to draw their weapons and fight free of the blockade, but the Orcs enclosed the space between them faster than the distance suggested and fanned out among the rocky labyrinth. But the Elves' alternate paths to the sides were soon cut off, beset by their hideous shapes leaping from behind rocks with mewls and roars, their teeth bared.

With a flash of steel and a surge of burning fury, Maitimo did not hesitate to decapitate the Orc that rushed him on his right, sheering through what little iron his sword met. Black blood spurted high and Maitimo followed through with a fierce fist to the Orc immediately behind the one he slew, crushing the muscle-ridden neck beneath the folds of his gauntlet and rendering the beast still enough to drive in his sword beneath unprotected ribs.

Chaos unfolded.

The ring of swords being drawn was loud amid the din and, much to Maitimo's bewilderment, the Elves moved almost as one body within the ring of Orcs to knit closely around him, facing outward as much as Maitimo was. Their blades, already fast and swift, were now spurred on with a speed that came only from pure panic, and the panic among the Elves now desperately fighting was one Maitimo had never before witnessed. The terror they exuded was overpowering and Maitimo's fury grew greater. His strokes came down harder, more vicious, and his mind echoed relentlessly with the burning question of how many would die. How many?

 _How many would die!_

The thought gave him an extra surge of energy as he sent a brutal kick into the Orc he parried with, sending him doubled over with his back exposed and Maitimo reversed the grip on his sword to pierce the thrust in between the iron-plated armor. Before the Orc could even completely crumble to the ground, Maitimo shoved the beast and its weight back into the Orcs behind it before looking over his shoulder, drops of sweat falling into his eyes. He saw Aráto dodge an iron blade just in time that flew through the air, though it nicked the surface of his neck from which blood quickly welled. And Sornion was close beside Maitimo, flanking him on the opposite side, the swiftness of his sword and shield moving with desperate speed. Maitimo's eyes quickly flicked over the rest of the host before he turned back to fighting once more and his heart went beating erratically with a newly growing horror, for there was only one outcome to all this. Only one, an inevitable one, no other. The twang of bows sounded in no set pattern, telling Maitimo that the archers fired at their own will. And though the razor-edged arrows were finding their marks, the sound of the number of bows was lessening as one by one they were killed.

The strokes of the Elves visibly began to grow more frantic. For every Orc slain it seemed there were three more to take its place and swords hammered from the finest steel intercepted Orcish blades of a coarse molding. In several series of flashing strokes the Elves repelled the Orcs, but it was just not enough. The repetitive bang on shields echoed the loudest over the entire skirmish's din, and more than one Elf was finally driven to his knees. But when the Valaraukar started to engage those Elves in the rear, the desolation in Maitimo's heart knew no bounds, especially when he saw out of the corner of his eye many shots of flame igniting in tune with the sickly sound of flesh being minced.

And the Orc-speaker remained where he stood, watching.

There was a sudden cry of Aráto's voice cut short behind him and Maitimo spun on his heel, blood-streaked sword held aloft and ready to land a blow wherever it might be needed. But as soon as he turned he closed his eyes at the unexpected spurting of blood, hot flecks of it hitting his cheek. He snapped his eyes open, but the Captain was gone from his sight, somewhere on the ground amid Elven and Orcish legs that flew around his body, even trampling or tripping on it.

Sornion stood not too far off, his always confident face now completely twisted in despair while he bled profusely from what seemed like many places, for he was covered in blood that was more red than black and was unable to stand fully erect anymore. Maitimo saw it, saw it all, heard it all and his vision went red. The Orc roars might as well have been another layer of the thunder overhead and the keen clamor of steel and iron blades rang over the field, the noise incessant and jangling to the nerves for all the flashing of their swings. And more than one Orcish blade was cleaved by Elven steel.

But as Maitimo parried another Orc's blow, running his sword through said Orc's throat when the opening came, the helm of a nearby warrior of the King's Guard caved under the mighty blow of an axe. The warrior fell, the spear bearing the pennant of the Star of Fëanáro landing with an ungraceful clatter next to him. Elves were dying, one by one being killed by the onslaught of beasts that would just not lessen in their seemingly infinite number. But above all the horrid noise of battle, the shouting and crying of Elves was absolutely deafening to Maitimo's ears, cries of hopelessness, pain, and many of those cries being abruptly cut short.

And something in him snapped.

His eyes narrowed as his expression went from desperate and frightened to threatening and dangerous, and he moved with an alacrity that he had never moved with before. His sword flashed with a newly born fury, singing its own song of that screeching clash of metal. He rained blow after blow upon any Orc within reach and they moved to parry and block but were barely fast enough. Backhands, overhead cuts, round arm swings, harder and faster, cutting and slashing freely, the curvature of the blade a blur as it was propelled by fingers and wrist, shield used to block hits as much as to ram solidly into those Orcs charging him, and his left arm began to grow numb at the endless battering on his shield's honor point. He heard himself screaming, an unholy yell tearing from his throat. He felt the devastating blows of iron blades and even the solid impact of a cudgel landing on him, felt the severing of skin. Several Orcs suddenly charged him at once and he stepped back to hastily evade their lunges, but he lost his footing as he stumbled over a limb and toppled over, landing so heavily on his back that the air was driven from his lungs and his sword was knocked from his hand. He heaved in a lungful of air and moved to rise, but an Orc foot shod in iron stomped down on the chief of his shield, bending his arm backwards at the awkward angle.

Several Orcs then approached him and he ripped his forearm from the buckles of his shield, the tendons of his wrist stretching at the sudden pull. He reached over for the fallen spear just as the nearest Orc went to drop on top of him. Maitimo stabbed the spearhead directly into his chest, the momentum of the Orc driving its own body down without Maitimo needing to exert any force of his own. The biting steel tore through its armor like wool, black blood emerging and soaking into the beautifully woven pennant, and the beast slowly collapsed on top of his legs. Maitimo rolled out from under the Orc and sprang to his feet, slamming his elbow into a throat, the sharp corner of the steel splits of the vambrace tail slitting the skin of whatever Orc he hit, and he mashed the gauntlet of his sword hand viciously into another Orc's face.

He wielded the spear with wild abandon, his grip slick on the blood-coated shaft and the pennant coiling around the langets. But neither of these things hindered his violent swings, the spearhead finding its mark on several necks and around several bucklers to spear into poorly iron-shod chests while the butt moved in graceless arcs to deflect oncoming blows. He felt the continuous seeping of hot blood trickling down his shoulder blade but thought nothing of it as Orcs continued to fall around him. Soon, though, they paused in their concerted assault, ranging around Maitimo in a circle and Maitimo watched them with a feral glare, spinning with the spear held at the ready, blood dripping from its spearhead. But the Orcs held off, snorting and huffing while clenching their fists on the hilts of their iron weapons. Maitimo turned, waiting, seeing nothing but a sea of monstrous faces everywhere he turned as he looked for the next attack. The next axe to come hurtling. The next blade to come swinging. He looked, watching and waiting and spinning. He turned and turned, but they did not advance. Valar, what were they waiting for?

Looking from pair to pair of sallow eyes, all backlit by the Valaraukar's flame, it was by mere luck Maitimo managed to just glimpse his sword lying half-buried in the dirt and rock. With only a moment of hesitation, he dove to retrieve it. The Orcs lunged at his lapse of attention but Maitimo was faster, throwing his sword up to awkwardly deflect a strike aimed at his spear arm with a clang before thrusting said spear up through the Orc's torso and into the cavity of his chest. But the spear caught tight and, ducking another attack, Maitimo forsook the spear and sprung to his feet, sword once again flashing silver as he struck against any moving form nearest to him or coming–

Where were the Valaraukar?

The thought came randomly, but he spun wildly around to face them, to somehow fend off their attacks and dodge their blows with as much as speed as he could muster…but they were standing off. They stood off. Why did they stand off? _Why!_

The brief flicker of hesitation cost him.

Before he could evade it, before he was even fully aware that it was coming, a flying cudgel came from his right and his vision flashed white as it struck his head. The straps broke under the blow and his helm flew off his head. Maitimo collapsed to his knees as he was abruptly assaulted with a pounding pain in his skull that immediately rushed through the rest of his body. The sounds of the skirmish faded away as his ears were overcome with a piercing ring, but it soon lessened. The white in his vision also faded, though his sight continued to swim with the image he found himself staring at as he knelt there: the sight of dozens of bodies lying in a haphazard heap that stretched out endlessly, bodies both Orcish and Elven, coated in blood both black and red, and their corpses silhouetted by the fire of the Valaraukar.

He swayed on his hands and knees as he tried to stand, his body wracking with tremors all over. At mid-rise something slammed into him from the right and he landed on his back, the air driven from his lungs. Before he could even breathe again, a heavy body came crashing down on his chest and Maitimo found himself staring up into the savage eyes of an Orc at the same time when strong, scarred fingers wrapped around his neck and squeezed, completely cutting off his windpipe.

Any remainder of breath he still had left him in a painful, clawing gasp as, hardly a moment later, Maitimo felt a hobnailed boot stomping down on his right wrist, his sword being wrestled from his hand and taken completely. His chest burned as it strained furiously for air, his mouth falling open, and his fingers clawed at the hands around his throat, his nails tearing into the skin. But the Orc did not even flinch, continuing to stare down at him with a malicious snarl. Maitimo's heart was pounding and, in a swift move with an extra surge of strength, he reached down and wrestled the dirk from its sheath on his hip and brought it up, thrusting it barely halfway into the Orc's neck. Black blood spurted from the wound, hot against Maitimo's neck, but the fingers slackened as the Orc went limp, falling to the side.

He coughed, dragging in frantic, ragged breaths, his heart galloping furiously as his blood rushed through his veins, and he shifted to do something. Anything. To rise, to swipe the dirk at the underside of the knee of the Orc still standing on his wrist. But only two pounding beats of his heart passed before another Orc was above him, knocking the dirk from his hand with a painful kick. A kick so strong that it bespoke of a strength not found in any Orc and Maitimo saw why as a familiar face appeared above him, a knee pressing down on his chest with a crushing amount of weight. And powerful fingers once again cut off his airway as they squeezed, squeezed tighter and more mercilessly than the last Orc had.

Maitimo's only free hand scrabbled at the thick wrist as he bucked, desperately trying to wrench his other arm free of the foot on his wrist to dislodge the Orc-speaker choking him. But the unworldly beast was as sturdy as a mountain and no matter how greatly Maitimo tore at his wrist and made it bleed, the fingers remained steadily wrapped around his throat, tightening even more. His lungs were on fire and the frantic movements of his body gradually began to slow, but the hand on his throat did not relent. Maitimo's heart beat rapidly and he made a low noise of distress, a raw terror overcoming him the longer he tried to draw in the slightest breath and could not. His mouth fell further open as he desperately worked to draw in even a morsel of air, but he might as well have been drowning. Involuntary tears stung his eyes as he continued to try and rip away the hand on his throat, though his fingers were now feebly twitching more than anything. But the suffocating persisted.

His vision began to dim and his fingers tingled. His thoughts grew distant and blackness began to shutter and spread along the outer edges of his vision.

The last thing he saw was the remorseless expression of the Orc-speaker calmly looking down at him.


	7. Across the River

.

 **Chapter 7:  
Across the River**

Makalaurë went to the campfire with a waterskin, lowering himself to sit cross-legged alongside Tyelkormo. A sigh of relief escaped his lips as he relaxed against the hard ground, softened only by the many thick tuffs of grass growing at random lengths. And the cheer of the fire was welcoming, he had to admit, something newer than the number of tasks he was running out of to keep his mind busy or the number of songs he sang or halfheartedly hummed under his breath to keep his mind distracted.

He shot a cursory glance at Tyelkormo, who sat on an upright log next to a pile of kindling and brittle branches. He tossed the waterskin at his feet. "I thought the solitude of the fissure would be peaceful, but really, the absence of the Noldohossë makes me fidget."

Tyelkormo snorted, not looking up from his hands. "The rest of the King's Guard remained with us, plus some of the Pilindossë. I suspect they would be honored by your discourse and each has a voice able to speak, so go and talk with them if talking cures your fidgeting."

Makalaurë rolled his eyes and leveled a withering look on him. "Yes," he drawled. "Guards who are essentially as miserable in company as we are. And those of the Pilindossë watch the perimeter."

"There is Carnistir."

He scoffed. "Embracing a kiln would be safer."

Tyelkormo grunted, though no further answer was forthcoming, not that Makalaurë really expected one. He tilted his head to the side, eyes narrowing in curiosity as he paid more focus on the rhythmic movement of Tyelkormo's well-corded hands. A small, soft smile upturned the corners of his mouth.

He was carving.

Makalaurë's mind was taken back to when he had last seen his little brother at his favored pastime and he realized with mild, glum wonder that it had not been since before the Darkening that his brother's skilled hands had been whittling away at wood. But he did not appear to have lost any of his talent in the subsequent time, Makalaurë added as his eyes followed the swift blade. A horse the size of a hand that was standing in a graceful pose had been shaped from what looked like wood from the fissure pines, a fashioning that resulted from hours of delicate woodcarving and now Tyelkormo was knifing in the finer details. Making the choppy surfaces smooth and the subtle engravings more prominent. He was using the hunter's knife he always kept in the sheath of his boot and Makalaurë recognized it as the one their father had crafted for him when he had completed his apprenticeship. Its handle, shaped with finger grooves, was worn smooth over countless years of use and the immaculate blade elongated in a curve and tapered to a point, from which angled a lethal grip hook. Makalaurë was often surprised it was still functional, having many times wondered how frequently Tyelkormo needed to replace the blade, how many times he already had. But he knew Tyelkormo had only ever used it for carving, despite the purpose of hunting their father had crafted it for.

"I must say it is uplifting to see you carving again."

Tyelkormo looked at him sardonically before swiveling his eyes back on the shaven wood, blowing dust off it and the knife's bevel. "Then prepare to be disappointed. I only make it for Telpë." Makalaurë raised an eyebrow at the mention of their nephew. A look of what might have been regret passed over Tyelkormo's face as the corners of his mouth turned up in a pitiful attempt at a smile. "Atar promised to make him a horse," he explained. "I am just finishing it."

Makalaurë's brow crinkled in mild bewilderment, trying to recall any recent time he had seen his father carving. It was almost ridiculous just thinking about it. "I was unaware Atar was crafting anything for him."

Tyelkormo shook his head. "He was not. But I know he intended to because he asked me to unpack the carving sets after we began settling in the Grey Fields, but…." He trailed off with a shrug, gesturing in a way that bespoke of some finality, but Makalaurë nodded. He understood. Too well. Moringotto had launched his assault only shortly after they established an encampment north of the Lake that had some level of functionality to it. Valar, he still remembered to this day the astonishment that had transformed his father's regal face, an astonishment that had swiftly transformed into a mask of wrath so intense that it had fueled the fire of his fëa until showing terribly raw in his bright eyes. Followed by their immediate counterattack, followed by ten days of hard battle, followed by their father's death, and followed now by him and Tyelkormo and Carnistir in the fissure and the whole Host of the Noldor at the Lake waiting impatiently and anxiously for Maitimo to return. They were into their fifth day of waiting, though he was not due to return for at least one more day, maybe several more.

Makalaurë gnawed on his lip, willing his mind to latch onto something else, but Tyelkormo's words filtered through his brain more fully and he cocked his head as he looked at him again. "Why wanted he a whittling knife? You know how he was lately and any kind of sharp knife can be used to carve something so simple."

He shrugged, running the knife along the horse's flank, curled shavings toppling off. "He always used a whittling knife, remember? You know he was always so maddeningly particular about the proper tools being used for the proper task."

"So I was reminded every time he asked for my help in the forge, remember?" Makalaurë contented himself with the rhythmic rasping of knife on wood. He stared at the horse, the finer intricacies gradually taking shape and breathing life into the figurine. He pursed his lips. "I know not what to think of Atar carving a plaything, if I should be gladdened or troubled."

"Do not be." Though the words were spoken tranquilly enough, the knife began moving in shorter, more agitated swipes and cuts. Makalaurë frowned but remained silent as the expression on his brother's face darkened. "I spoke with Telperinquar soon after we passed through that cleft, the one with the waterfalls." He sighed, lapsing into a brief silence, but he pushed on again anyway, his voice growing stiffer. "I suggested that he should ask Atar to make him a horse. Something to distract him from the internal noise when everything else could no longer do so."

Makalaurë looked at him at that, his eyes softening as they rested on his brother's features, a brother who now refused to raise his eyes. He felt a surge of warmth in his chest at the unspoken intention Tyelkormo had likely meant to happen by his request to Curufinwë's son. He could see it now, had their father lived long enough; just sitting there on a log or the verdant campgrounds, quiet and still, and steadily whittling away at a piece of wood, his eyes temporarily clear of the turmoil and emptiness while he had something simple to concentrate on. But no. It had not happened.

The gentle swishing of the blade started again and Makalaurë was grateful to be dragged away from such thoughts. He peered closely at the horse, pursing his lips as he studied the light wood that shown even whiter at the flowing mane. "You need swirls."

The knife stilled. "What?"

Makalaurë offered a small smile as he gestured to the horse. "For the mane. You need swirls, not straight lines. Atar would decorate the mane with swirls." The clarification was met with a blank stare and his smile grew. "Remember you not the horses Atar carved for you and the others when you were children?"

Tyelkormo was silent, blank stare still firmly in place as his eyes traveled from the horse to Makalaurë and back again. "Oh." A grumbled curse fell from his lips and Makalaurë was hard pressed to withhold the chuckle at the foulness of the words. Tyelkormo sighed. "Curse it all." He chucked his knife into the ground.

With a glance of wry amusement, Makalaurë reached over and yanked the knife from the dirt. He flipped it in his hand, presenting it hilt first. "Finish it. Just tell him you forgot to ask Atar how to carve the mane."

There was a pause, but with a look of chagrin Tyelkormo took back the knife. "Good enough, I guess."

"Princes!"

Both started at the sudden shout and turned in the direction it came from. It was Ingorion, a Captain of the Pilindossë. Only thirty or so Elves of the regiment of archers remained with them in the fissure under said Captain's command and they now ranged the perimeter of the mountain cleft while those of the King's Guard stood in the immediate vicinity of the sons of Fëanáro, clearly refusing to let any one of the three out of their sights. Even Carnistir who had left on a hike to walk off some of his aggravation was not able to weasel out of allowing a small troop of guards to follow in his wake. So few Elves present with him and his brothers left the fissure with a haunted emptiness that just did not feel healthy after filling it for so long with an army.

Ingorion was standing on the side of a path high above them that trailed to the eastern ridge, leaning precariously over the ledge. Makalaurë had to crane his neck to properly see. He was attired completely in leather armor, his head free of any helm and a longbow strung across his back with the fletching of arrows peeking over his shoulder.

"What is it?" Tyelkormo shouted, voice tight with consternation. Makalaurë glanced at him but remained quiet. As Commander of that particular troop he held Ingorion's service especially.

"Pray come, my lords!" Makalaurë felt his heart skip a beat at the anxiety in the Captain's voice. "A fell light fast approaches from the east!"

He and Tyelkormo could not have flown from their seats faster.

Their feet pounded on the ground as they ran towards the pathway, the many guards hurrying their pace as they followed in their wake. They ascended, only slowing midway up to accommodate the danger of the hazardous climb and more than once a curse was muttered under an Elf's breath as someone stumbled on the loose gravel. The fact that there was not a glimmer of starlight gracing their location did not help their going, the clouds above them thick and curdling as ever. They climbed nearly blinded, feeling ahead with their hands to ward off any sudden boughs hanging too low, though Makalaurë suspected their eyesight was adapting to the dark more and more with every new day of perpetual night.

There was a blur of movement to their right and, out of nowhere, Carnistir appeared, melding with the shadows of the pines.

Makalaurë grabbed hold of his arm to help him along. "Where did you come from?"

Carnistir wrenched his arm away, his face transmuted with a dark expression that seemed to have become a more or less permanent fixation of his visage. "I wager every Elf heard his shout. I was not far off."

They reached Ingorion and the Captain wasted no time before stepping on the almost indiscernible left trail of the fork in the path and running up the steep hill, the others quickening their strides at his urgency. They soon enough reached the eastern ridge where two other Elves stood in a huddle, exchanging quiet words and worried glances. The Elves crowded around the ridge, nearly all the guards having followed and Makalaurë and his brothers jostled their way to the front, joining the Captain who was pointing into the distance with his longbow. He was speaking, but Makalaurë could hear none of it.

He could see without the Captain's explanation just why they had been called here. And Makalaurë felt horror dwarf every part of his being.

Something was coming their way impossibly fast. The expansive plains were as dark as ever, but on this high mountainside they could still see for leagues into the east, all the way to the bend of the horizon, though Thangorodrim was endlessly a distinct sight. But a sound like the rumble of thunder traveled across the steppes, nearly blending in with the distant booms of the far gales, but still so prominently different that it could not be mistaken for anything else but the sound they had heard only once before over two weeks ago: the angry cadence of an Enemy march. The dark horizon was lit with a greatly contrasting glow of deep crimson and striking rays of orange, a glow that very quickly grew bigger and brighter. Makalaurë stared, knowing every Elf looking on recognized the glow's unique diabolical hue. And it was heading straight for the mountains.

It felt as though the air had been sucked from his lungs and Makalaurë felt himself go cold as everything stilled around him.

Nelyo….

"What happened?" The whisper came from his right and Makalaurë looked over at Carnistir's terrified expression.

He forcefully whipped his eyes away. "Tyelkormo," he nearly barked, his voice tight. "Recall those of the Pilindossë. Aldëon!" He turned, eyes flying to locate the second-in-command of the King's Guard. The tall Elf stepped forward. "Do you the same with those stationed about the fissure. We leave anything behind that does not need bearing, though take up Fëanáro's banner and conceal the healing supplies in the caches as fast as possible."

"Makalaurë –"

"We have to hasten back to the Grey Fields, Carnistir!" he snapped, unknowing of what his brother was going to say. But his heart was now galloping so fast in his chest that he did not care. Carnistir looked at him in unadorned disbelief and Makalaurë half expected an angry retort to be snapped in return, but the horror that Makalaurë felt consuming him was so blatant in Carnistir's face that there was no room left in his eyes for anger. Makalaurë looked around at them all. "I know not what became of our lord brother and his regiment, but spawn of the Enemy marches before our eyes and at their speed they will reach the mountains in a day! Moringotto cannot know we remained here to wait for Maitimo, so that horde's only destination can be the Host. Now let us move!"

Aldëon gave a short nod, his expression closing off as he turned around, brief and quick orders falling from his tongue and the guards abruptly fell into action. Tyelkormo also shook himself from his speechless daze, though still visibly shaken as he gestured towards his Captain. Tyelkormo sped off at a run down the trail with Ingorion right on his heels, the keen note of his powerful horn blasting across the fissure and echoing among the mountains' broad pinnacles just after he disappeared from view.

It was by sheer will Makalaurë managed to turn away from the ridge, his heart palpitating faster and the spike of raw dread only piercing deeper with every step. Carnistir and the others trailed behind him and Makalaurë burst into a run.

O = O = O

Curufinwë sighed wearily, absently running his fingers through Telperinquar's thick hair. He shifted where he sat on the grassy turf, stretching his legs further out as he leaned against the center pole of the tent, the solid shaft of wood stable enough to support his weight. Curufinwë looked down at his son. He really was starting to be a little too big to sit on his lap, but sitting on his lap he was, his head resting on his shoulder as Curufinwë supported him with his arms. Telperinquar's cheeks were streaked with dried tears as he slept and, though his exhausted body demanded Curufinwë to lie down and rest, he did not have the heart to let go of his son and carry him to his own bedroll.

After returning to the encampment and collecting his son from his minders, stumbling as the child had run to collide into waist, he had led him by the hand to the tent they currently shared with Carnistir and sometimes Tyelkormo. But his son must have seen something significant in what he thought had been his unreadable expression because his normally inquisitive tongue had been silent. He had doffed his armor and weapons, resting his sword reverently atop his armament crate before removing his gambeson to change into something more comfortable. After donning a light robe of deep blue he had loosened his hair from its bindings before kneeling on the grass and gesturing his son towards him. It had been some days before he had told Telperinquar what happened, seeing to the needs of their people and the reintegration of the warriors with the Host, but he delayed the discussion for as long as he dared.

The ensuing talk wound up being harder than anything he had prepared himself for.

Telperinquar shifted and Curufinwë looked down at him. No. Still fast asleep. Curufinwë ran the backs of his fingers along one cheek to wipe away the streaks, closing his eyes as he rested his head against the pole again. The Elves outside were singing and he contented himself with listening to the voices of hundreds of Elves raised together in lament, though his throat closed up as the words struck him all over again.

"Oronti pella ortanë i hiswa lúme  
Yá Fëanáro taura qéle.  
Hendya síle ep'eleni calimambë  
Yá rëantes cennenmë illumë alcarë.  
Ómaya né telepsa  
Ar máliya nér malta  
Mal yo endaya úruva  
Apantanë hendemman i lissë  
I emmo nómë avaháya ar vinya."

Curufinwë grimaced. The raw grief in his son's face when he had told him of his grandfather's demise had broken something in Curufinwë and before he could stop it, he had found himself weeping, hands trembling as he tried with all his might to put them away, but the tears had fallen nonetheless as Telperinquar had cried into his shoulder. Though it made Curufinwë doubly glad he had omitted most, if not all the details of how and why Fëanáro had died. Valar, he could only fathom the horrific images that might have haunted his son during his sleep, but logically, he knew it was only a matter of time before Telperinquar was bound to hear the gruesome truth of the matter from the lips of passersby or from overhearing a quiet conversation among any two people of the Host. And, Aulë help him, he did not know what he would do or say then. Yes, it had only been some days since their return to the encampment, well over a week and pushing two, but word of the manner of their king's death had spread throughout the Host with the speed of a brushfire. Not too surprising, but Aulë help him again, he owed so much gratitude to his friend Canyadil and his wife Riellotë, who gladly minded Telperinquar during any absence of his, for preventing any words that might have even been possibly embellished from reaching his son's ears.

Curufinwë glanced out between the folds of the tent, the twins' faces popping up in mind. He had not seen them for over two days, not since this song of the Noldor began resounding across the Grey Fields continuously. But wherever they had removed themselves to, he could only hope that the other two copper-haired runts of their family were similarly struck in the heart by the Lament. Part of him loathed the thought of them being hurt in the way only exacerbated anguish did, but they had kept it bottled up since the battle's final day and they needed to release it before it festered, or festered more than it already had. Maybe it was a good thing Makalaurë sent them back.

Part of him also wondered how Vëantur fared upon hearing the Lament. A sore Elf to think on, admittedly. Curufinwë shook his head at himself. He would be the first to admit that his acquaintance with the Elf before the Rebellion had been poor. Poorer than it should have been. Yes, he had only been the Captain of Finwë's Guard, but Vëantur had long been entrusted with the safeguarding of their father whenever Finwë had managed to convince their sire to accept the mote of protection. Valar, he could still feel the surge of shame at learning Fëanáro had elected Vëantur as his Second during their Flight – it had obviously bespoken something of the value his father had perceived in the Elf, a value that was maybe born of a friendship Curufinwë never stopped to consider they may have shared. And now the Elf Vëantur had guarded for as long as Curufinwë could remember was gone. He had no idea what had become of the Commander of the Minyahossë either, whether he withdrew to his own solitude or if he still walked among the Host to attend to any warriors. Curufinwë did not have the slightest doubt Vëantur was aspiring to follow Maitimo's example, with how steadfast he was remaining and all, but this Lament was not exactly easy to hear and he wondered if Vëantur had caved to it as well.

And Yánadur, he knew, had taken what solace he could find with his wife.

Maitimo. His heart fluttered a little faster as it always did at the thought of how his brother and his delegation fared out on those steppes.

His ears twitched when he heard the Elves start the song over again and he turned his head towards the tent's entrance as he listened to the ode. Hm. Would it succeed in striking Maitimo hard enough to break him down and shatter the walls of ice he had clearly erected around his heart? Just maybe, Curufinwë grimly thought. For he would also be the first to admit that it was their oldest brother he worried for the most. Carnistir's reaction at least made sense. Makalaurë's made sense. But Maitimo's frightened him, something Curufinwë resolutely kept to himself for now since their eldest and now uncrowned Noldóran was correct in trying to maintain his composure for the sake of their people. It was why Curufinwë had done his accursed best to replicate it, why he had caught Makalaurë doing the same and probably everyone else who had some measure of authority among the Host. He could not help but wonder if Maitimo was aware of the effect he had generated and Curufinwë viciously wiped at his face as his eyes started to burn with those stubborn tears all over again. Wisely decided or not, this reaction was entirely unlike the Nelyo he had known his whole life and Curufinwë committed himself to speak with his brothers about it after this whole maddening affair of striking a bargain with Moringotto was finished.

He was confident they would all agree to take their eldest aside to speak with him. And though Curufinwë had not a shred of doubt in his mind that Maitimo was reluctant to show even a flicker of what he might perceive to be weakness when he now had the daunting task of ruling the Noldor on his shoulders, it did not change – _should not_ change the fact that if there were any he should feel free enough to have a breakdown in front of, it would be his brothers. It had better be his brothers. Because for all the coldness Maitimo now donned in his face, he knew Maitimo was hurting. Knew how deep it went. He was his brother, damn it all. He knew. Though Curufinwë wept enough tears with his son, he was aware that the long, woeful journey to heal from this was only beginning, but releasing the buildup of sorrow had helped. At least for a little while.

But once things calmed down among the Noldor and some measure of stability was restored again, Curufinwë would be damned if he allowed Maitimo to close off his heart any longer from the reality he knew was trying to tear it in half.

"Oronti pella ortanë i hiswa lúme  
Yá Fëanáro taura qéle.  
Úcaurë sé mahtanë Valaraukannar  
Ar qéle pan altanáreltya.  
A Fëanáro Noldóran!  
Yo véra umbarterya sé appanerye oirë.  
A Fëanáro Finwion!  
Tentanë atarlenyanna  
Ar hiruvalyë métima sérë."

The Lament went on and on. Curufinwë clenched his jaw all over again as the words fell relentlessly on his ears, despite that he had heard them so many times already. It was an ode shorter than the wont of their people's songs, but it had been sung on and off for hours, rising from a congregation of Elves or sometimes only a few. There was no gentle plucking of a harp or lyre or soft blowing of a pipe accompanying the song. Only the countless voices of high and deep vocal ranges from both neri and nissi, and the enchantment woven from their descants made the power of the Lament so ridiculously palpable that Curufinwë was at a cross between loving it and hating it. He could hear the grief in the wavering notes and partially wondered if no one added the harmony of an instrument because they thought the Lament was beyond it or something else. He had no notion who composed the song and though he was hardly surprised by the speed at which it had been taken up by all of the Host, it still made persistent tears sting his eyes that it had. The words were so simple, so unadorned with the zest and flair Noldorin composers typically added to their lines, yet it still hurt so badly to hear them sung. Though he still betted that the song Makalaurë would foreseeably compose would be beyond the ability of any Noldorin voice to sing, and he did not know whether he was excited to hear it or if he dreaded it.

A sudden blast of a keen horn blared across the Grey Fields.

His eyes snapped open as he turned towards the mouth of the tent, trying to peer between the small gap of the flaps. Telperinquar stirred in his arms. "Atto?" he mumbled, blinking up at him.

"Shh." Curufinwë strained his ears, frowning. The hundreds of Elves outside abruptly ended their singing in answer to the one, piercing note that had cut through the sound of all their voices. A heavy silence fell, broken only by the eerie chirring of insects and the occasional quiet murmurings Curufinwë could make out.

The horn blast came again.

He sprung to his feet, shifting Telperinquar onto his own and taking his hand. He stepped outside, looking around for who was near and was grateful to see both Canyadil and his wife not far away. He gestured them forward.

The horn sounded again.

He recognized that particular sound to belong to the horn of Tyelkormo but dismissed it from his mind as the two approached.

"What is happening?" Canyadil asked, his brow furrowed. "That was not Makalaurë's trumpet." He was a hardy Elf, his stature broad with a physique shaped from an existence at the forge, his dark hair thick and coarse, though his face was fair with sharp angles and his blue eyes bright. Riellotë was as much a dark beauty also, a hastily woven shawl wrapped around her petite figure as her hand clenched apprehensively on her husband's forearm. "It is Tyelkormo's, no?"

"It is, but I need to go." Curufinwë looked from him to his wife. "Riellotë, would you pray look after my son awhile?"

The mistress nodded. "Of course. You know you need not ask."

"But Atto –"

"Go with her, yonya," Curufinwë spoke over him sternly. "Go. I will return shortly."

"Come, Telepitya," Riellotë urged with a soft smile, calling him by the affectionate name given to him by his grandfather. She held out her hand. "I am sure your uncles have much to discuss, so let us let them hurry on with their talk, shall we?" The child took her hand, clearly reluctant, but she gave it a fond pat and led him towards their own tent where it seemed like tea was steeping over their campfire.

Curufinwë looked after them, waiting until she walked him a far enough distance away, though their small shelter was erected not far from his own. "Canyadil, find my brothers for me?"

Canyadil nodded and sped off, his steps light and swift as he weaved in and out of people before becoming lost to sight. He must have had some prior notion of the twins' whereabouts if his friend's surety in the direction he had taken off in was any indication.

Curufinwë gave a small shake of his head and began walking towards the eastward rim of the encampment. He had to suppress the urge to run, ignore how his heart began to beat faster as his mind formulated reason after reason why Tyelkormo sought to raise the alarm. More and more people stirred at the persistent blow of the horn and several people waylaid him at the sight of his hurried pace, question after question being asked, but he bid them to remain calm and to tell others the same. Valar, the last thing they needed to deal with was a panic among a host numbering as many as they.

The walk from the center of the encampment to the perimeter was long despite the haste he moved with. Halfway there, Curufinwë's eyes flew to his right when Vëantur suddenly appeared, keeping pace and Curufinwë looked him up and down in mild inquiry. The Commander had doffed any armor fashioned from metal, though he now walked in half-armor with leathers hardened with wax. He carried a brightly lit lantern in his left hand and an unclothed spear in his right. Many words sprang to mind to speak, but Curufinwë held his tongue and Vëantur also appeared reluctant to speak with so many people milling around. They completed the walk in silence, passing the perimeter and bypassing the perimeter guards, though no further than fifty paces out as to remain in clear view. The stars were shining bright in the near cloudless night on this side of the mountains and he and Vëantur crossed over the field without trouble until they stopped on top of a hill. Without a word, Vëantur handed the lantern to Curufinwë and then shoved the butt of the polearm into the soft ground with three mighty heaves. Taking back the lantern, he reached up and hung it from the roundel and slowly removed his hands, waiting to see if the thin handle would slip from the narrow perch of metal. But it held, casting an ominous glow on the spearhead above it. Curufinwë nodded. At least his brothers would have a location to veer to when they arrived.

The horn sounded again, much louder this time, and Curufinwë looked out to the rolling hills that were littered with trees. Because of the starlight he was able to see the summits of the mountains on the horizon, but he saw nothing yet of his brothers. Or of Tyelkormo, at the least.

He cast a wry glance at Vëantur. "And now we wait."

Vëantur absently nodded. "Always waiting."

There was a pause before Curufinwë collected himself and turned a graver look on him. "Have you been among our people of late or retreated you to solitude?"

"Both." His eyes remained trained on the fields. "I have been everywhere, primarily to keep myself active. But too often did the Lament drive me to the isolation of my tent."

Curufinwë hummed in agreement. "Gathered you any idea of the Host's response to everything happening?"

Vëantur snorted. "I believe the Lament is answer enough, Highness," he said, ill-humored. His expression softened. "Forgive me. These last few days have been difficult. But in my honest opinion, I believe the people's grief is made greater by the fact that there is no body to bury and that they were just as shaken as we when learning what happened to it. Concerning the plan of Prince Maitimo…." He sighed, eyes wearied. "I know not the general opinion towards it, but I gather that they are too anxious to yet know what to think of it. That they just want the delegation to return first." A sardonic smirk twisted the side of his mouth. "Always waiting."

Curufinwë shrugged. "I cannot fault them for it. My sire's death is a blow to the Host and I wager this parley with the Enemy only exacerbates it."

There was noise behind them, a trampling of light steps, and both turned to find a group of Elves hastily approaching: the twins, Yánadur, several guards and the Seconds of both Tyelkormo and Makalaurë. Curufinwë knew the Second of Carnistir would have been present, but he was currently in the healing ward on the opposite side of the encampment. And where his own Second was he had no clue. Curufinwë observed the twins with a shrewd glance but could not discern whether or not they had at all done as he hoped. Both wore identical expressions, which were completely unreadable, though he could see the same confusion clear in their eyes that he felt dwarfed by himself.

Yánadur was the first to speak. "What is this?" Curufinwë raised an eyebrow at the question that, truly, had not really needed to be voiced. "I know it is the horn of Tyelkormo. Believe you that Maitimo and the delegation are with them?"

Curufinwë so desperately wanted to say yes, but he had to be practical. "No," he answered with a sigh. "I want to believe it is, but it is too early yet for Maitimo to return to the mountains, let alone cross them and traverse the basin as Tyelkormo at least has done." Unless Maitimo had turned around early, but Curufinwë kept his mouth shut.

No one had a response to that and they all fell into a communal silence. Time passed, though every portion of the wait felt like an hour on its own. There were occasional mutters between the Elves behind him and the chatter of crickets with no cessation seemed to grow in intensity the longer they waited. Curufinwë closed his eyes, hoping that the twisting of his stomach would calm if he focused on the braying of the wind. At least there was no smell of burnt charcoal lingering on the air on this side of the mountains, he reflected sourly. Though right now it smelled like rain.

He frowned, looking up at the starry sky. His frown deepened. There was the infrequent wisp of a cloud moving across the skies, only made discernable when it passed over the stars and obscured their light. But there was nowhere near the accumulation needed for even a gentle rainfall, let alone an amount that would cause him to smell the coming of rain on the air. He stared, the frown persisting.

"There!"

The hail shook him from his rumination and he looked to where the guard pointed. Sure enough, pinpoints of light in the distance emerged from the darkness, traveling the many hills of the fields. It was a troop of Elves nearly fifty strong and Curufinwë was washed over with the crushing weight of disappointment as he realized that, unwittingly, he had been carrying the same hope as Yánadur had. But Maitimo and his sixty Elves were most certainly not among the group heading towards them now.

Curufinwë's eyes widened slightly when he realized that the Elves were running. Running as fast as they could over the uneven terrain and with no torch to light their way. Why did they run? Even as he had the thought, the troop of Elves steered towards the direction of the mounted lantern. The banner of Fëanáro was held aloft and as they came closer Curufinwë saw that his three brothers were at the fore, all the Noldor who had remained with them in the fissure directly behind. A dark foreboding took hold and traveled all the way down Curufinwë's spine and into his hands, which he slowly tightened into fists. They had not been supposed to return without Maitimo.

Not a word was uttered behind him and Curufinwë waited with bated breath until the Elves reached them and came to a hurried stop, several of the guards taking up positions in a range around them and turning their backs to face the mountains.

"My princes, what happened?" Vëantur asked, and Curufinwë was mildly taken to hear the unnerved undertone in his voice.

Makalaurë's eyes traveled over them, hair horribly tousled as he panted. Curufinwë was sure his eyebrows were not the only ones to rise. Valar, just how long had his brothers been running to actually end their journey winded? Tyelkormo and Carnistir heaved for air just as heavily, Tyelkormo recovering only a little faster. All of them looked as though they had run for five straight days, the minimum time required to traverse the land from the encampment to the mountains. Makalaurë's grey eyes passed over them one more time, settling a little longer on both of the twins and Curufinwë, and the look he saw in Makalaurë's eyes made Curufinwë feel a pit of dread.

Makalaurë looked at Vëantur, drawing in a few more deep breaths and there was a level of authority in his voice Curufinwë had rarely heard before. "I will speak this only once, for we have little time, so hear me," he said in an upraised voice. "A horde of the Enemy fast approaches behind us. We know not the number, only that Valaraukar are with them and that they make for the encampment. The Host needs to migrate and some swift coordination between the banners will be needed to see it done in the little time we have."

Voices rose with both exclamations and questions behind him, but Curufinwë lifted an imperious hand and the tumble of demands quickly died down. He stared hard at Makalaurë, barely breathing. "What happened? I hear you and we will heed whatever you say, but what has become of Maitimo if the Enemy draws near?"

There was a crack in Makalaurë's resolute expression as his eyebrows drew down together. "We do not know," he said after a moment. "Neither Maitimo nor any Elf with him returned, but a lookout on the eastern ridge espied the fast coming of another possible assault. From the direction Maitimo departed in," he added. "Conclude what you will."

The silence that met those words was deafening. Curufinwë's heart began to pound so hard in his chest that he heard the blood in his ears.

"But he agreed to flee come realizing that Moringotto had sent more than agreed!" an Elf behind them protested, one of the Captains of the Tatyahossë Curufinwë saw.

"Be still, Valindur!" Yánadur hissed.

"Obviously he had not!" Carnistir bit out at the same time. "My lord brother has spoken and we have no time to waste with a long exchange of words to assume what may or may not have happened!"

Vëantur nodded at him. "As you speak, Highness." He was clearly reluctant to give up the topic but said nothing as he turned to Makalaurë. "And as you command, my prince."

Makalaurë stared at him silently for a long moment before he took another deep breath, turning his eyes to look across all of them once again. "Curufinwë, Ambarussa. Gather together the heads of the Host so that I can address them and then go and raise our six banners. Bid those who marched under Atar's and Maitimo's banners to divide themselves among our own and to stay there until a more permanent solution is determined. We will divide the Noldohossë from the Host so that the warriors can provide a more stable escort for the crossing. Aldëon will lead the King's Guard in Aráto's absence and Vëantur, take up the command of the Nelyahossë along with the Minyahossë. Tell the Captains of Sornion it is my order to heed you if they protest."

Vëantur's eyes slightly widened before any expression closed off completely, but he nodded. "The crossing of what, my lord? Where is the Host to move?"

Makalaurë nodded his head towards the west. "Across the river." There were four rivers that sprouted to each corner of the compass from the Lake and they had established their encampment just east of the northern branch. "Orcs we can battle well enough if we must, but we know not yet how to slay Valaraukar, so beseech you unto Ilúvatar that those demons loathe water as greatly as Orcs do."

Vëantur nodded his understanding, but Valindur took a step forward. "You actually believe a measly river will stop them, Highness?" he demanded incredulously, his face anxious.

"Valindur!"

Makalaurë held up his hand and Yánadur fell silent. He stared hard at the Elf until the Captain retreated back the single step. "Pray they do." It was all Makalaurë said and he barely let a moment more pass before looking away. "Yánadur, while rousing the Tatyahossë, sound the alarm and see that my order is heard to strike up the camp. My brothers and I will coordinate the passage of the Noldor, though all the children and those in the healing ward will need to be borne across the river at once since their going will be slower."

Curufinwë narrowed his eyes, concern taking hold. "You are speaking of urgency, Makalaurë. Just how much time have we to see this done?"

"A day." Makalaurë held up both his hands to forestall another barrage of questions. "We flew here as fast as our feet could fly, but we must take on the assumption that a day at most is all we have to begin migrating before they are upon us."

"But it is several days' worth of travel from here to the mountains," Yánadur interjected with no little stringency. "We cannot see any Valaraukar fire. If they are a day's distance away, they should have crossed the mountains by now, which are plain unto our sight." He gestured towards them and several heads in Makalaurë's company turned to look, though Makalaurë did not. "There is nothing out there and we all know we should be able to see the fire of their passing."

"So should have Maitimo," Makalaurë retorted darkly. "Though we cannot guess what ensued, it is easy to trust that his delegation was met with the same Valaraukar who now come for us. And that, for some Valar be damned reason, he went so unknowing of their presence that fleeing was no longer an option! I would rather we not make the same mistake if the Enemy aspires to ensnare us with the same trap."

"But a day gives us little time to ready anything for transport," protested another Captain.

Makalaurë relented a little bit, the corners of his mouth turning down. "I know," he conceded, his eyes grave. "But we have no choice but to carry only what our backs can bear."

Vëantur slowly shook his head, worry finally making it into his expression as he continued to stare, nearly glare at Makalaurë. "They will burn everything if we forego defending it."

Makalaurë met the fierce stare. "Then they will burn it." He looked away from Vëantur, eyes flicking across the others. "We must move the Host across the river. I know the Noldohossë is wholly ready to uptake arms once again to defend our encampment for a second time, but Valaraukar come with whatever number of Orcs must be marching and we still have no notion on how to kill those particular beasts. So unless one of you has been suddenly blessed by Ilúvatar with insight on how to, our options are very few. Pack whatever the horses can carry and with the mounts send the nissi and children to the river first, along with any who bear too grievous a wound to walk. We can only take means for survival and have only hours to do so. So let us move."

O = O = O

Those next few hours had Makalaurë fraying on the edges. The ascending notes of many horns had been blown in a fit pattern that the Noldor had long been tasked to memorize. Curufinwë had run ahead to take a distraught Telperinquar in his arms, who had been covering his ears at the deafening horns and, after a very brief explanation of what was happening, he asked Canyadil and Riellotë to take him across the river while he dealt with his own banner. Riellotë had looked shaken by his words but readily took the child's hand again while Canyadil volunteered to rush to the healing ward to help with the transport of those too ailed among the wounded to go on foot, those who needed to start moving now. Every warrior donned whatever manner of armor and weapons he had and any second sets of armor, primarily of hardened leathers, were worn by the wives of those Elves who had them. Haversacks were quickly filled with only blankets and food, flint and steel, a few items of clothing, and only the most precious and smallest of trinkets. Makalaurë's racing thoughts started to slow as he watched many of their people become ready to go within an hour.

Rather belatedly, Makalaurë's memory sparked and he assigned the twins an additional task, running urgently throughout the encampment in search of them and sidestepping several people, many of whom hastily veered out of his way.

"The parchments," he gasped at them, heaving in quick gulps of air. "In Atar's pavilion. Add them all to the satchels." Both nodded in understanding, the younger of the two rising from his squat with one of said satchels to make his way towards the green.

The healing ward was another tale entirely. It was a massive tent erected on the westward side of the encampment, nearest to the freshest water source and it was a peak pole structure with several center poles and support lines and stakes and brailing pegs. It was unquestionably the structure most loathed to see burned and not just by the healers. So many Noldor had contributed to its make, heeding Fëanáro's command that the healing ward had to be the first shelter most functional for those who would inevitably be injured. Pallets had been long constructed but now were padded and made ready for carrying. Despite Makalaurë's order to travel lightly, he rescinded it for them and the Master Healers oversaw the packing of nearly all their supplies, Menelluin and a band of healers going ahead with her to prepare a place beyond the river while Fionildo remained behind with the sons of Fëanáro.

Campfires were doused with hastily thrown dirt and the horses were made ready, though they whinnied and neighed with abandon, seeming to sense the distress in their masters. Those who marched under the banner of Maitimo were dismayed to learn the reason why they were instructed to follow someone else and Makalaurë had to be summoned to calm their rising dissent. His fëa had ached at the chore and he wanted to collapse to the ground afterwards, but he had been little surprised by the assembly's reaction; the host under Maitimo was massive in number, second in size only to Fëanáro's. Many had migrated to Makalaurë's own banner and he had wound up asking the twins to combine their own banners with his to have more stability in the multitude of people now being guided across the river by the elegant harp threaded with gold and silver upon a crimson field. Maitimo's own banner of a laurel branch with three stars for sprigs was carried alongside his own.

Just as the Noldor began to shift westward to leave the perimeter, that very familiar glow of red appeared on the rim of the horizon. Panic nearly set in again, but Makalaurë commended his brothers and the Commanders and lords for keeping order, though urging them on all the faster.

But such progress was impeded by a gradual lack of light. Makalaurë was ready to curse aloud as he glared up at the sky. Not too long after the confirmed sighting of the Enemy, heavy clouds began accumulating with great speed, black and rumbling with the early sounds of thunder. Many were quick to believe it was just another omen of all the ill tidings of this day, and Makalaurë found it difficult to deny. What? Were these Valaraukar always hailed by dark storms?

"Fine. Fine! Take away what starlight we have too!" Carnistir had snarled in disgust at the darkening skies. Makalaurë could not really disagree with the pessimism.

Slowly, the encampment was vacated.

And just in time.

The warriors of the Noldohossë walked along the perimeter of the Host that was moving in a solid line across the fields. Tyelkormo and Curufinwë had taken point to see the nissi, children, and wounded safely across, though with the river as wide and perilous as it was in several places, more than a few Elves found themselves swimming. Makalaurë and Carnistir brought up the rear with Vëantur while all the others leading the divisions spread out throughout the rest of the Host. They crossed the river at the shallowest bend nearest to them and then turned south a ways so that a deeper part of the river, rampant with fierce currents, lay between them and the Enemy, if the Enemy was actually going to follow them so far and not just stop at the sight of a vacated encampment. There were no torches among the Host, so they essentially would not be able to be seen. Hopefully.

Makalaurë found himself shaking his head. Though the Host was divided by the banners, it was still a haphazard mess. He spotted Curufinwë a distance off with Telperinquar on his hip, even if he was a little too big for it, the child's face buried in the crane of his neck. Many of the children were being held and reassured.

Makalaurë walked among them. Multiple Noldor had shuffled into one small group or another. He passed by several families huddled on the ground, mothers rocking their little ones in their laps while fathers sought out something to do, whether to find kindling for a fire or to receive orders from his commander or liege. Many of them turned to look at Makalaurë as he walked by, eyes filled with fright and uncertainty and he could feel their gazes burning into his back long after he passed. Taking up a cold face as Maitimo had done was becoming easier and easier.

He located Vëantur with the twins to his left and made his way towards them, taking care not to tread on any clothing or fingers. Vëantur was removing his helm, hair matted with sweat, and Makalaurë was grimly reminded by his fatigued expression that Vëantur had done so much heaving and lifting and running when he had not necessarily needed to. Makalaurë pursed his lips, knowing he was gradually learning why his father had elected him as his Second. His own Second, Orostámo, was presently assisting the wounded. Both twins bore haversacks that he knew to be stuffed to the brim with the parcels among parcels of maps and journals that they had charted and chronicled over their migrating of Hísilómë. Makalaurë reckoned those heavily and even messily scrawled parchments were currently as sacred as few other things.

The twins gave him brief smiles of welcome, though the smiles were faint and disappeared quickly. "You look to be tearing apart at the seams," Pityafinwë observed mildly.

"I feel like it," he grunted, doffing his own helm as well. The mild wind was bliss as it cooled the sweat along his neck and forehead.

Pityafinwë hefted the haversack on his shoulder before holding out a hand towards Makalaurë. Makalaurë looked from the hand to the twin, brow crinkling in slight confusion, and Pityafinwë gestured towards the haversack that hung from his own shoulder. "Let us."

"You need the reprieve," Telufinwë added.

Makalaurë hesitated. Inside the haversack was his father's armor, each piece individually wrapped and he had clipped his sire's sheathed sword to the opposite side of his sword belt. He hesitated further, but at the meaningful look both the twins gave him, he sighed and slid it from his shoulder, placing the leather strap into Pityafinwë's hand. The twin swung it up on his other shoulder, looking none the worse for wear at the extra weight.

Makalaurë forcefully turned his attention away, focusing on Vëantur. "Your thoughts?"

Vëantur sighed. "Well, I think this past week has been a trial on its own, though not much has really happened in your absence. But then, I also think that too much has happened too fast for the Host to adapt as they should. And…." He trailed off as he turned his eyes upward, visibly trying to collect himself with a shaky intake of air. "Damn it all, Makalaurë," he finally said with an explosion of breath. "I have gone to great lengths to endure his death, but just knowing what must have happened to Maitimo and the delegation is angering me." He closed his eyes, running an exhausted hand over his face and leaving small traces of dirt behind. "I could tell the Nelyahossë is bereft without Sornion, though they did not disobey your order. And Aráto I knew since he entered the Noldóran's Guard in Tirion. So many of those people. And Maitimo…." He trailed off again and Makalaurë saw the strained movement of his throat as he swallowed.

Makalaurë stepped closer. "Vëantur," he said solemnly with a firm shake to his shoulder. "Think not this is laid to rest. I fully intend to go across the mountains and yes, you and far more than sixty Elves will go with me. But pray last a while longer," he insisted. "I need the aid of as many who can give it right now."

Vëantur was nodding. "I know, Highness, and you have it." He gave a bitter smile. "I would not fail my sire in such a way. Just…." And once more his words died off. His eyes shifted away to look over Makalaurë's shoulder and they widened with a growing dread as he seemed to inwardly deflate. "Ai Ilúvatar," he cursed under his breath.

"Look at that."

Makalaurë turned to Telufinwë at his whispered words, seeing the horror in his little brother's eyes as both the twins also looked in the direction Vëantur did, and Makalaurë bit his lip, closing his eyes with a sense of dread. He knew what sight he would see. He turned around, looking beyond the river and he felt his chest tighten up as he saw the orange haze blazing in the eastward darkness, the haze quickly growing in intensity.

The encampment was burning.

Shots of flame erupted into the air and the Elves looked on in silence, not a word falling from any person's mouth and Makalaurë caught many people turning away from the sight. After several more moments of silent staring, he did as well, walking away from the twins and Vëantur to kneel on the damp turf, uncaring of the mud that found its way into the crevices of his greaves. He bent over, bowing his head and closing his eyes tight. The clouds had continued to build up overhead and now all starlight was completely blotted out, thunder booming endlessly in what Makalaurë was ready to believe was a mockery of their horrid circumstances.

Makalaurë pressed his lips together as he ran shaking hands through his hair to grip at the locks, willing himself to take up whatever composure he still had left. But what was left was quickly shredding. His throat was tight as he swallowed and it was all he could to do stop from yelling. Valar, what if they came to the river? What if Captain Valindur was right? If the Enemy did actually go beyond the encampment to the river and the Valaraukar were actually able to cross it (and why would they not?), he had no idea what he would do. What could be done.

Stars above, what was he going to do?

* * *

Yonya = an affectionate diminutive of _yondo_ (Q. "son"), equivalent to English "son/my boy" (much like the Spanish _mijo_ )

English translation of Fëanáro's Lament [not diagrammed]:

Beyond the mountains rose the grey hour  
When perished the mighty Spirit of Fire.  
His eyes gleamed brighter than stars  
When he smiled we saw always radiance.  
His voice was of silver  
His hands were of gold  
But with his flaming heart  
He revealed to our eyes the grace  
Of a picture of a place far away and new.

Beyond the mountains rose the grey hour  
When perished the mighty Spirit of Fire.  
Without fear he fought against Balrogs  
And fell to their great flame.  
O Fëanor, King of the Noldor!  
With his own finality he touched eternity.  
O Fëanor, son of Finwë!  
Go to your father  
And at last find peace.


	8. The Wake of Water

Name Index:  
Pityo = Amrod, abbr. of Pityafinwë  
Telvo = Amras, abbr. of Telufinwë

* * *

 **Chapter 8:  
The Wake of Water**

A cool drop hit his hand.

Makalaurë looked up from where he knelt, staring dumbfounded at the place on his hand where a splattering of moisture grew cold against his skin. He looked up further to the sky and another drop nearly landed in his eye. More fell, and the noise of the gentle sprinkles tinkling on armor grew.

Murmurs erupted around him, a rising of exclamations overlapping from the Host congregated on the banks of the river. But before the full impact of what that meant came to him, Yánadur was standing in front of him, grabbing his shoulders and helping him to his feet. Where had he come from? The question could not even filter from his brain to his tongue before Yánadur was squeezing his arms, giving him a firm shake.

"Makalaurë, it rains!" he nearly yelled, as though attempting to break whatever daze he had fallen into. Makalaurë nodded, looking around. Carnistir stood just a ways off from Yánadur, clearly having arrived with him, and he was staring up into the sky with eyes squinted against the gentle rainfall. His hair grew matted with moisture as the rain continued to thicken, and his face was a blend of bewildered surprise and a desperation that conveyed the fraying of the tenuous control he had managed to hold since their hasty departure from the fissure. And now he stared up in slight wonder, unmindful of the rivulets of water running down his face and underneath his armor.

Makalaurë saw that Carnistir was not the only one struck silent by the rain. Looking out at the sea of people, most of the Host he could see from here had their faces upturned towards the clouds as well, some rising from where they sat. Their exclamations grew more wondrous as the rain fell harder and he glimpsed several small children clapping or bouncing where they stood, smiles lighting up their faces, while the older children hassled their parents with question after question. Not that they were able to answer. The few campfires that had been kindled hissed and wafted steam at the sudden onslaught of water and many rushed to cover their satchels with cloaks.

It was raining.

Makalaurë wracked his brain for something to say but came up with nothing, finding himself just gawking up at the sky with the rest.

"What small mercy is this?" Telufinwë wondered softly, a small frown creasing his forehead.

"A fine feigning of one," Pityafinwë retorted somewhat angrily, though he gazed up into the rain with an expression equal to that of his twin. "Sure, we stand here gaping at the fall of rain, but this is not near enough needed to douse a campfire, let alone the burning of our encampment."

"Ah, little princes, I daresay it is," Yánadur murmured, he and Vëantur both peering in the same direction as before.

Makalaurë spun around at the expressions of both Commanders and his eyebrows climbed up his forehead at the sight of thick clouds in the far distance sending down what could only be a torrent of rain where their encampment lay. Even in the dark as they were, with the starlight completely blotted out by the storm clouds, the sheets of rain were so heavy that they could not be mistaken for anything else in the glow of the encampment's fire. A fire that was gradually but quickly dimming as they watched.

"I cannot believe it," Carnistir muttered, though Makalaurë could not tell whether his words had been grumbled with disgust or incredulity. Whatever.

"Commander Vëantur," he called languorously, eyes still fixated on the dying orange haze. He heard squelching steps behind him and turned, his gaze passing briefly between him and the others. "Relay my voice that the Host is to rest as well as they may for the remainder of this day. In ten hours we will move to return to the encampment. Bid Orostámo to aid you in speaking to all the heads. He should be with the healers. And send Fionildo and Menelluin to me if their hands are free. Tyelkormo will organize the watch for the perimeter when I find him, so do not concern yourself with that."

Vëantur seemed taken aback by the end of it. He opened his mouth but hesitated. He closed it, his expression unreadable as he bowed his head and turned on his heel, speeding off and calling out to one or two others who then followed in his wake. Makalaurë watched them go, mildly curious as to what the Commander intended to say.

"What is happening, Makalaurë?"

He turned to his left to find Curufinwë and Tyelkormo coming, both with hair matted to their heads, and the former with a very wet Telperinquar sitting on his hip.

A fond smile touched Makalaurë's mouth at the sight of the disgruntled expression on his nephew's face when so soaked and the way he hugged his arms around Curufinwë's neck. He opened his own arms wordlessly and, with a slight raise of his eyebrows, Curufinwë passed Telperinquar to him. He hefted the child onto his hip as the little one dug his hands into the plates of his armor. "He really is becoming a little too big for this," he said to Curufinwë with a wry grin and Curufinwë returned it with a nod.

He looked at Telperinquar. "You are wet, I see." Telperinquar nodded, gnawing on his lip with that gloomy look still firmly intact on his delicate face. Makalaurë chuckled. "You do not like it, hm?" The little one shook his head, the ends of wet strands swiping across Makalaurë's cheek. "Want to be warm and dry? Yes? Well, I believe Uncle Tyelko's hound would agree."

In a sight that Makalaurë wagered would have been amusing under more pleasant circumstances, everyone there, Yánadur included, turned to look down at said hound that was faithfully sitting on his haunches at his master's feet. Huan, panting and with his tail and tongue wagging, looked as though he had dove into the river and stayed there a little too long. His fur was sodden and dripping incessantly, his dark eyes practically covered by sopping strands. As if on cue from their collective regard, the huge dog gave a muffled bark and rose, giving himself a fierce shake, splatters of water landing on Tyelkormo and the twins, who both grumbled. Telperinquar's mouth finally turned up in a small smile and Makalaurë gave him a squeeze.

"See? Even Huan declares we must all dry off. In some time we will leave, but I must borrow your father for a while." He lightly jostled him. "May I?"

Telperinquar looked between him and Curufinwë, softly frowning. "I want to be with him," he whispered tentatively, as though fearful he might be saying the wrong thing.

Makalaurë glanced at Curufinwë and the remorseful expression peeking through his little brother's face. He looked back at his nephew, tilting his chin up with a finger. "He told you of your grandfather." It was not a question, but Telperinquar nodded anyway, his visage growing more pained at the reminder of Fëanáro. Makalaurë hushed him, rubbing his back. "All is well, Telepitya. But your grandfather left some things for me to do, and for a while I will greatly need your father to see them done. Will you lend him to me for that?"

Telperinquar nodded, burying his face in Makalaurë's dark tresses as his small body grew tense and he knew that the child was trying to hold back sobs of some nature. Though with a fleeting look in Curufinwë's direction, he was quick to believe that the learning of Fëanáro's death was still probably too new. He kissed the top of Telperinquar's head, running his fingers through the dripping strands of hair. "Thank you," he whispered in his ear, and he felt the child's arms tighten around him. From the corner of his eye he saw the approach of the two healers and passed Telperinquar back to Curufinwë, giving a final pat to his head. "All will be well, little one. We only must wait." He watched as Curufinwë gathered the child by his side and tilted his head in mild intrigue. "You face is rather empty of wonder at the rain, brother," he observed curiously.

Curufinwë shrugged, appearing unsurprised. "I smelled rain before your arrival at the perimeter. Though the actual might of the storm does leave me in wonder." He held Telperinquar close, retreating in his steps. "Summon me when I am needed, will you? If we are to soon make the return journey, he needs to rest."

Makalaurë nodded his dismissal, gesturing for Fionildo and Menelluin to approach when they neared, though they slowed to a stop a respectful distance away. The healers' attire was damp, but not as much as Makalaurë's own and it was obvious that they had erected some form of a shelter for them to attend the wounded under, or possibly more so to protect their provisions of remedies and healing supplies from winding up drenched.

"Highness," Menelluin greeted with a curtsey. Her chestnut hair was askew from its twist at the base of her head, thin strands clinging to her cheeks and neck, and she appeared more than a little exhausted. But she was alert enough as she looked at Makalaurë in question. "Commander Vëantur said we are to depart in ten hours?"

"Yes. What say you of the wounded? Is it well if they return to the encampment now or wiser if they remain here for a day or two longer? If so, I will arrange for a suitable escort to remain behind for their guard, but Fionildo will be accompanying the Host when we set out either way."

Fionildo raised an eyebrow. "I will?"

Makalaurë nodded. "Yes, along with four battle-healers of your choice, though a fair portion of the healers will remain with the Host. That is why I need your answer now. If the healing provisions need to be divided, it must be done on this side of the river."

Fionildo and Menelluin exchanged a glance. "Where do you go, Highness?" Menelluin asked, her forehead slightly creased.

"To learn what became of my lord brother and his delegation, of course." A palpable silence met the words and he felt the stirrings of pained dissonance behind him from his brothers, but he could not find it within himself to speak with them about Maitimo yet. He knew he needed to, but his fëa positively curdled at the very thought of it. "Your answer, Master Healers?"

Fionildo sighed, pulling his mottled green and grey cloak tighter around him. By the hefty broadness outlining his shoulders, it was evident that he at least wore the leather pauldrons and breastplate crafted for him beneath his cloak, though his forearms and legs were free of the cumbersome material. "Crossing the river again in the same manner as before will present no immediate danger to any of the wounded. Those confined to a bed handled the first crossing well enough. Only if the rain persists do I recommend that they stay here awhile before being transferred." Menelluin nodded along with his words. "The majority of those suffering a wound are able to walk and I wager that they would rather be among their families and friends than stay here, regardless of what we would say. We can divide the healers returning with the Host among those of the wounded who wish to go and can endure the journey without consequence."

"Very well. I leave it to you and Menelluin to organize a way to see the wounded safely back, should the rain cease. Tell me if you need any more additional aid than you have now and come to me in six hours with your plans. We need to begin readying the Host in how the banners will fly by that time." Both bowed to him in concession and he dismissed them with a soft gesture, turning to a silent Carnistir and Tyelkormo, the latter of whom was standing with an eerie stillness, one hand on the pommel of his sword and the other on the head of Huan, absently fondling the saturated mop of hair. Huan looked more like a contented cat at the moment, Makalaurë thought with an inward scoff. "Tyelkormo, Carnistir, walk with me. We need to assign a perimeter guard sooner than later, even if this storm really has staved off the threat. Yánadur." He turned to the Commander, who looked at him in question. "Stand at the ready for the Nelyahossë until Vëantur or I return, will you? The guards will most likely be pulled from them and the Tatyahossë since I want the Minyahossë ready to act as escort across the river."

Yánadur was silent at that and though an unsettled frown crossed his face at taking up the daunting task previously upheld by his colleague, he acquiesced with a nod of his head and departed without a response. Makalaurë was unconcerned by the resolute silence as he watched him go, aware that Yánadur had ever resorted to it when dealing with stress.

"What of the Pilindossë and Ehtyari?" Tyelkormo voiced. "Do not forget we have them."

He nodded, but shrugged uncertainly. "I do not know yet. We will figure something for them on the way. You two runts," he called to the twins. He ignored the identical astringent looks at the cavalier form of address. "Until we finish, be my voice for the Host and see to it that a substantial number of hunting parties are made ready."

Both nodded their understanding. "We will ensure that the worst of the meat is reserved for you," Telufinwë added with a glare.

Makalaurë glared back but resisted the bait. He instead held out a hand, a pointed look in his eyes. The twins stared at him nonplussed for a moment, their russet hair now darkened by the water to a deep red that would have been considered exquisitely beautiful under a brief flash of Laurelin light. But nearly at the same time, comprehension dawned in their eyes and both made a disgruntled face before Pityafinwë slid the strap of the haversack containing their father's armor from his shoulder. He passed it into Makalaurë's outstretched hand without a word.

Makalaurë hefted the satchel back onto his shoulder, feeling as though it weighed the heaviness of thirty ingots. Makalaurë turned to his brothers and ignored how their gazes were trained on the bulky haversack. "Let us go."

O = O = O

It was not until crossing the North-river that Makalaurë saw Vëantur, let alone finally spoke to him. He had seen neither hide nor hair of his father's Second since issuing his orders to him the previous day. Nor had he known whether to be troubled by the silence or simply believe that Vëantur's time had been fully taken up with alerting the Host, which was entirely possible considering how clustered they had all been along the riverbank. They made use of the banners in the same method as when first fleeing the encampment and Makalaurë's own banner was at the head of the Host. Right now it had the largest following of Noldor, still conjoined with the majority of people from his father's and Maitimo's banners who had selected it when dividing themselves. Probably for the sole sake of choosing someone in the limited time and he had merely been the next in line, he reflected somewhat sardonically. But his banner had taken the van of the Host while Tyelkormo's brought up the rear, the warriors of the five Companies of the Noldohossë interspersed among both of them to conglomerate as a single force to act as the vanguard and rearguard while those among the rest of the banners acted as a standard escort for the rest of the Host in the middle.

The Noldor following his own had already crossed, children being carried on shoulders and even smiling at the ride. Makalaurë remained behind to stand on the east-bank of the river so that he could monitor the crossing of those who were bed-ridden. They only numbered a few, fortunately, and were not in any immediate danger despite their confinement to a pallet. But nonetheless, the riverbed was rampant with white water that ran over the many rocks, tumbling and churning. They were using the same junction as before since it was still the narrowest point of the river, stretching out at just under fifty paces wide. It was also shallow enough – despite the storm – as to present no jeopardy that came with the rapids found both upriver and downriver. The deepest area of the crossing rose to mid-thigh while the average depth only submerged the Elves to their knees. But under this vision-obstructing dark and with the slickness of the rocks, Makalaurë felt doubly paranoid for those physically incapacitated when even he had stumbled several times over one the rocks.

All of the wounded were crossing together. Fionildo was standing a short distance away from Makalaurë on the same bank, observing the dozen or so litter-bearers just as sharply as he was. Two satchels were draped across his chest and he was so dripping wet from the chest down that it was obvious he must have kneeled several times in the river before reaching the east-bank. That, or he just plain and simply fell in. Makalaurë was just straining his ears to make out the sharp warnings Fionildo was issuing to the litter-bearers when Vëantur was there at his side on top of the smooth rocks.

His appearance was so sudden that Makalaurë looked at him with unadorned surprise, his heart beating just a little faster. Valar, he knew the Commander was a puissant guard and was proving to be a warrior of equal caliber, but would it have been that troublesome to make just a little noise when sidling up?

Vëantur raised his eyebrows in response, amusement allaying the grim cast of his eyes. "My apologies," he uttered, the corner of his mouth twitching.

Makalaurë made a face. "Oh, leave off."

The glimpse of a smile grew before fading away completely. He cocked his head to the side. "You do not walk with your banner?"

"No, but Orostámo carries it." He turned his attention back to those on the riverbed. "None of those wounded upon enquiry wished to remain behind when the rain ceased and I felt obliged to supervise their crossing over the river."

Vëantur hummed, his own eyes moving to observe the many Noldor wading through the water. The line of the Host melded into the darkness in both directions and the opposite bank of the river was only just visible, marked mainly by the meager starlight that had begun to finally peak through the dispersing clouds.

"Go with your banner, my prince," Vëantur eventually said. "Though we have two days of travel ahead of us yet, be at the van when we come to the encampment."

Makalaurë nodded, a dour frown twisting his mouth. "I know I should." He sighed, the stiff set of his shoulders dissipating a little bit as he thought about the encampment. "I pray their anger will not be too great when they see what damage there is."

"If they harbor any anger at all. The only real complaint they can possibly have is worn feet since you returned in time with warning of the Enemy. I would think any person would rather suffer the loss of their belongings than their own life."

Makalaurë grunted in concession to that, though he was still torn. He did not doubt it, but he did not wholly agree with it either, at least about the part that they would not complain. People loved to complain. But he kept that to himself, able to guess with a fair amount of confidence what Vëantur's response would be.

Vëantur looked at him as though waiting for a further reply, but when none came he seemed to shrug it aside, looking again at the Elves in the water. And just when Makalaurë was convinced his regard was fully focused on said Elves, the Commander turned to him again but with a sharper, keener regard. He twisted his jaw and it only took one glance in Vëantur's direction for Makalaurë to sense the debate warring inside him, but he kept his silence, willing to wait him out.

"If I may enquire, Highness," he finally said, "what foresight came upon you after Maitimo's departure? I thought little of your decision to remain in the fissure, for he was –" He grimaced. "–is your lord brother, and I would have done the same. But now seeing what came of it, I am curious if your decision was perhaps inspired by something more."

Makalaurë rolled a shoulder. "There is nothing really exciting to tell. It was Carnistir who requested to stay. I simply granted it, though admittedly to the relief of both Tyelkormo and myself when I refused to let him stay alone." He pursed his lips in consideration. "Though the silence drove me mad, I think now that I needed it for a while."

Vëantur frowned at him. "I know it is not my place, but is Prince Carnistir well? I cannot claim to know him as well as Yánadur does, but he has spoken very little of late." The frown deepened. "I only ask because it is rather unlike what I have come to know of him, even in Tirion."

A small smile quirked Makalaurë's mouth. "I know my brother, Vëantur," he reassured. "You need not be concerned." He turned his attention away from those in the river to regard Vëantur shrewdly. "On the other hand, have I earned your disapproval? You were ill-pleased with my orders."

Vëantur made a face, though it ended in a mild grimace. "Not disapproval, Highness. Your redirecting of the Host just caught me off guard. It was rather sudden. I simply wondered about the risk of returning so soon to the encampment."

"The Enemy had ten hours to come to the river," Makalaurë reasoned. "Why do you think I wanted us to wait so long? They could have come to the river in so short a time and the Host would have probably continued moving west if so, but they never showed. We would have been able to see their coming, especially since we saw the encampment's burning. But the storm chased them away for all we know, though I find it difficult to believe they would be so fickle with rainfall," he added in mild skepticism.

"Many are proclaiming that it may be a mercy of Manwë," Vëantur remarked idly, his lips pursed.

Makalaurë snorted. "Well, no offense to the Elder King, but I highly doubt any mercy of his unto the Noldor right now. Besides, I am far more ready to believe it to be a coincidence. Curufinwë said he smelled rain on the air while you awaited our coming from the mountains."

Vëantur frowned sharply at him. "I smelled nothing," he protested. "I was with him that whole time."

Makalaurë shrugged, not finding it within himself to even care. He turned around with caution, glancing down at the water lapping at his ankles to find any footholds to anchor his boots against. "If you remain here I will go to the van. I would rather be with my banner, as it is."

Vëantur nodded, stepping out of his way. "I will remain."

And they pressed on, though Makalaurë had to commend the fortitude of the Host.

Despite the Commander's reassurance, the wariness of his people's reaction to the encampment – or more so what was left of it – surfaced in Makalaurë's mind again two days later. Because Valar, he felt even his own chest tighten as he stood on the crest of a flat hill and merely observed all that had been done. They finally returned and, though the heavy storm clouds had dissipated, remnants of them still littered the sky with windows for starlight occasionally blown open. Scouts had been sent abroad and when assured not one creature of the Enemy had remained behind, Makalaurë led the Host across those last few acres of the Grey Fields. With his previously given consent, people filtered past him to the place they had temporarily managed to create a home out of, threadbare as it was. It was not long before Makalaurë joined them, his brothers close behind, who had met up with him shortly before the last stretch of the journey.

Despite the storm they had watched wreak havoc on this field, the encampment had not been saved entirely. So much had been burned and what had been spared the fire might as well have been dredged from a flooding, all thanks to the storm. The blackened remains of tents littered the ground, some floating in puddles of water and flecking it with specks that broke off from the charred material. A lot of bedding was destroyed, the wax of candles ruined, and newly crafted chairs and tables and divans lay in heaps of ashes, which had then been wetted into a sludge by the rain. But still, Makalaurë had to admit that the storm had come just in time and had actually saved much from the ravaging of fire. Many tents still remained erected, though they bowed under the weight of water that had puddled in the fabric and many of their pegs were scorched from the fire that had managed to lick at their wood before the rain had come. But with casual glances towards those shelters that had been burned only partially or completely, it seemed to Makalaurë that many of the Elves' personal belongings could maybe be salvaged, if not the homely comforts they had crafted since settling in the Grey Fields. That was good, at least.

The healing ward, however, was completely gone.

Makalaurë slowed in his steps to stare at the place where the massive shelter had been set up, a place that now looked so empty and bereft without that assiduously built structure. Though he had considered it wise beforehand, Makalaurë now felt nearly overwhelmed with relief that almost everything had been removed from the healing ward before abandoning it. All the tinctures, all the herbs, the dressings, the journals, the delicate tools, even the collapsible canvases for transporting water, all of it had been removed in advance. Bedding and their frames would have to be remade, new blankets hemmed and stitched, wooden bowls and cabinets and pitchers again carved, but everything valuable to the healing arts had been saved. But Valar….It would take so long to rebuild that shelter. So damn long. He now realized that those bursts of flame they had seen on the horizon must have come from the healing ward.

Makalaurë sighed, turning to Orostámo who stood just behind him with a white-knuckled grip on the shaft of his banner while he looked around at the ruin of the encampment. His Second straightened as he suddenly realized that his liege's attention was on him and Makalaurë offered a grim smile. "Pleasant sight, is it not?" He shook his head to himself, looking around at the encampment's remains again. He turned back to Orostámo. "Go and convoke the Council. They can find me at the command tent."

Orostámo stared at him dubiously for a moment before passing the banner into the hands of a neighboring guard. He gave Makalaurë a halfhearted bow before speeding away. He glanced back only once in question and Makalaurë nodded at him, waving at him encouragingly to go.

Watching him disappear into the mass of people, Makalaurë absently reflected that Orostámo probably had no idea of the level of authority he now carried. A Second's ultimate duty was to act as their liege's voice, and in the absence of Maitimo, Orostámo now had more authority than Sornion – if by some miracle Maitimo's Second was still alive – and more authority than even Vëantur, who had been his father's Second but was now technically just the Commander of the Minyahossë since Fëanáro had died and nothing more, unless he was appointed as something more. Makalaurë wondered how many people had concluded that, if even Vëantur himself had realized it yet, realized that most of his authority among the Host was now totally gone.

"I know not whether to feel relieved that half the encampment was saved or to think it a mockery of what we had before," Carnistir said behind him, looking around at the mess with clear irritation.

Makalaurë shot him a wry look, though really, he did not know how he should feel about this either. "Come now," he drawled, "let us prepare for the Council. You can grumble later. I know the Noldor are returning to their tents, but Orostámo will know where to find everyone. Pityo, Telvo," he called to the twins further in the rear of their small company, and both raised their eyebrows at him. "I need you with me. I know you would rather return to your own tent first, but we need to ready some maps."

"I will join you soon," Curufinwë interjected, who was again carrying Telperinquar on his hip, and who in turn was looking around with eyes more curious than unhappy. "I need to take Telpë to Canyadil and Riellotë. You two go ahead with Makalaurë," he said to Tyelkormo and Carnistir. "I will see what became of our tent."

Both nodded and Curufinwë broke off, heading towards the west rows of shelters while the others followed Makalaurë towards the center of the encampment where the command tent stood, which, surprisingly, was still wholly intact save for a few scorched pegs and brailing straps. The walk there felt like he was traversing through a swamp, though. Makalaurë looked down, uncertain if he was walking on grassy turf or treading through muddy water. The ground was just so sodden. Next to the command tent were the watertight crates stacked high and sturdily, and with the water still steadily dripping from their sides, it was a good thing indeed that they had made them watertight. Otherwise he could only imagine the damage that would have occurred inside.

They were within the green of the command tent when Huan abruptly bolted with a bark.

Makalaurë was taken aback and slowed his steps to a halt, turning to watch where the hound went. The others did the same and Makalaurë could almost chuckle at their flummoxed expressions. "Huan!" Tyelkormo yelled after him, his eyebrows drawn together as he followed.

Huan barked at Tyelkormo's shout but continued to run and kept on running until he came to a sliding stop, barking and barking. There had been quiet conversation from surrounding Elves that had their tents circling the command tent, but now several of those conversations ended while those Elves looked on with open curiosity at the hound so glibly making a raucous.

"Huan!" Tyelkormo called again more sternly, coming within reach of the animal, and this time Huan did end his relentless barking, though he did not turn to his master. Instead, he lowered his nose to the ground and began sniffing, weaving back and forth as he followed whatever scent he detected. Sniff, sniff, sniff.

Everyone stared.

"How can he smell anything in this wetland?" Makalaurë heard Telufinwë grumble. Pityafinwë snorted with a chortle.

Huan proceeded to follow his nose with Tyelkormo close behind, going in no particular direction and steering back in the direction he came more than once, paws splashing and kicking up water. Even Tyelkormo appeared confounded by the hound's behavior, but before long Huan moved himself to an area in the middle of the green that was not three steps away from the massive pit originally dug out for a communal bonfire and the dozens of crates of various Noldorin materials. Sniffing the area between the water-filled pit and water-soaked crates, he circled the spot three times before turning to face Tyelkormo and resolutely lowering himself on his haunches.

He barked.

They all stared.

Carnistir snorted. "Your hound is strange."

Tyelkormo leveled a mild glare on him before swiveling his eyes back to the dog, who now pressed on to bark unremittingly, dividing the sharp noises between yips and growls. He uncrossed his arms from where they had folded across his chest and approached his companion. "Now, now," he murmured, crouching down in front of him, his left hand absently going behind him to heft the bottom nock of the tauriyavan-bow so it would not dip into the water. Huan barked again and Tyelkormo lifted both his hands to run them over his head, tousling his ears and fur. "Tame your baying. What scent beckons you, my old friend, hm? What do you lead me to? Pray speak, my hunter. What…" His words in Quenya faded away as he without thought slipped into the speech of hounds, Huan grumbling quiet responses and lowering his head to butt it against Tyelkormo's chest.

Tyelkormo looked up at Makalaurë, his hands never ceasing their massaging of Huan's neck and shoulders. His face was a mask of plain bewilderment as he pursed his lips. "He says the scent is no smell," he said slowly, as though testing that if the words were spoken through his own mouth they would make more sense.

"How astute," Carnistir muttered.

Makalaurë ignored him, peering curiously at the dog as his tail flitted back and forth, swishing in the puddle that he looked very comfortable sitting in. "Is something buried there?"

Tyelkormo removed the glove from his right hand and lowered it to press his palm against the ground, submerging it in water up to his wrist. He moved his hand across the surrounding turf, around Huan and between his front legs since the hound still refused to move himself. His fingertips threaded through the grass, digging into the soil before he removed it completely, flicking droplets of water away. He looked back up at Makalaurë, shaking his head. "Most likely not. The ground is unturned."

Makalaurë sighed. "I agree with Carnistir. Your hound is strange." Tyelkormo offered a small half smile, rising to a stand and running a hand across the hound's head a few more times. "Come," Makalaurë went on, turning again to the command tent not thirty paces away. "Let us make this place ready." His boots squelched in the grass no matter how softly he tread, and he was suddenly very glad that the seal on his footwear was so impermeable. He heard his brothers squelching behind him.

Huan barked as they walked away and Tyelkormo turned back, whistling for him to come. Huan did not move, though he did jolt forward as though burdened by indecision on whether to follow or not. Tyelkormo beckoned him impatiently with his hand, Huan again listed forward, his ears perking, and Tyelkormo sighed in exasperation. "Stay there, then!" he called, turning again to follow Makalaurë, and Makalaurë resisted a chuckle at the indolent look in the hound's dark eyes.

Huan gave another half bark before rising from his haunches to bolt after his master, splashing all the way.

Pityafinwë muttered a curse as they entered the dark interior of the tent and, looking around, Makalaurë felt like echoing it, though he contented himself with a disgusted sigh. Everything was wet. It was nearly black in the darkness, the interior illuminated only by the pitiful amount of starlight filtering through the two ventilators. The ventilators that the rain had fallen heedlessly through after pooling on top of the slings of roof Makalaurë now realized. The material still bowed under the weight of water pooled there, low enough that Makalaurë was able to push against it with his hand. The swishing of water around their feet was loud and Makalaurë nearly tripped over some object lying sideways in the water. "Kindle a light!" he barked at whoever was behind him.

He heard someone depart and, though it took a while, the distant sound of a flint and steel came. A soft flame was carried back in by Carnistir; a candle in a sconce that must have been resting on one of the chests lining the wall. How it had not fallen into the water or become soaked from the storm was beyond him.

Everything inside was in disarray. Furniture overturned, many more sconces like the one Carnistir held scattered across the boggy ground, and many materials most certainly now ruined.

"Damn this flood," Telufinwë uttered in nearly the same vexed tone that Pityafinwë had grumbled his curse in. They hauled up an overturned table, one specifically crafted to lay out the broad mappings of what they had so far charted of Hísilómë.

"Check your displeasures, Ambarussa," Makalaurë warned absentmindedly. "I would far rather deal with damage dealt by water than fire. It is only on account of the water we have a table to lift upright at all."

Both twins hummed, using their bare hands to wipe away what bits of water stubbornly clung to the tabletop. "We have yet to contend with the damage done by the fire, so I would hold that conclusion until after," Pityafinwë said. He lifted his rucksack onto one end of the table with a clamor and, after a moment of hesitation, Makalaurë straightened a fallen chair and relieved himself of the weight of his father's armor. His shoulder twinged with a searing ache with every movement and he rolled it a few times, wincing at the jolts of pain it shot up his neck.

Carnistir was moving around the pavilion, searching for candles with dry wicks or just dry enough to burn. He found only four and lit them with his own, placing two on the table and the other three on another small table and two upright crates. The lighting was minimal at best, but it was enough. Truthfully, Makalaurë was surprised that the structure of the tent had not been displaced by the loosening of the soil the pegs and posts were pounded in.

He nodded towards the twins. "Draw out the maps of the Grey Fields, mainly those west of the North-river."

"You actually want to lay our only-drawn-once maps on this wet wood?" Tyelkormo pointed out.

"Lay down a cloak, then."

Tyelkormo shrugged, fingers swiftly untying his own since his in particular was doubly treated for oilskin. Both Pityafinwë and Telufinwë had their hands in the former's satchel, murmuring indiscernible words to each other as they filed through leaflet after inked leaflet. The specified atlases were unfolded and laid flat, Tyelkormo drawing arrows from his quiver to rest against the maps' corners so that they would not curl. Curufinwë ducked inside not a moment after bearing a brightly flaming torch, much to their pleasure.

"Mount it somewhere," Makalaurë said with an absent gesture of his hand.

There was little time for any further conversation before those who received the summons began to appear. The Council as it stood had been hastily assembled out of need, but until they devised a more fitting congregation of counsel, if they ever did, Makalaurë was content to uphold the current structure of its members. And he guessed that any changes they might make would be small since this Council was not too different in purpose or organization from the one in Tirion. Though answerable foremost to the Noldóran and to the Princes of the Noldor next, each division of the Host was issued their own chain of authority. Makalaurë knew their father had been aiming to replicate the structure of their society as well as they could afford, all the while accounting for the novelties of this peculiar Endórë.

Of the Noldohossë, Vëantur and Yánadur were present for the Minyahossë and Tatyahossë respectively while Captain Samnodil was present for the Nelyahossë in place of the missing Sornion. Likewise, Aldëon of the King's Guard was also present in substitute for Aráto. None voiced the significance of their particular presences, very well aware that their substitution just might be no temporary arrangement at all. A Captain each from the Pilindossë and Ehtyari were present, standing alongside Tyelkormo at his right. Present for the Host specifically were Fionildo of the healers and Master Yáravalto, the other Lambengolmo of high renown who moved to stand near Yánadur. Lords Laiquisyar and Sinyalvë, three masters of trade, and his and his brothers' Seconds also entered the pavalion.

"I will be swift," Makalaurë said come the moment the tent flaps closed behind the last to enter. What little discourse being quietly exchanged fell silent and he found himself the focus of many rapt gazes. "And I want any counsel you have to give to be swift also. We need to relocate this encampment and the sooner it is done, the better its purpose will serve. Even if we had Laurelin waxing in a neighboring field, I do not believe this excess water would dry in any acceptable time, and I would not subject one of the Host to such poor conditions if it can be remedied."

There was silence. He could tell by their awkward regards and exchanged glances that they had been caught off guard by the anomalous topic of conversation and Makalaurë made certain that his face was a careful mask of neutrality. It was not difficult to guess their thoughts. He knew what they had anticipated to be discussed. No, what they most certainly had been expecting to discuss and then plan with urgency. But by any recording of time, it had been over a week at the earliest and, though it made his heart twist in his chest, one more hour would not change the outcome of whatever had happened to his brother.

Tyelkormo was the first to stir and he folded his arms over his chest. "I can guess by the maps, but where do you suggest the Host moves?"

He tapped a spot on the sheepskin. "Here." The Elves listed forward to crowd in around the table. "A league or so west of the North-river, but south enough to mirror our present location near the rim of the Lake. I would send field surveyors abroad to appraise the agrarian and living durability for a host as great in number as we prior to settling there, but we need to at least determine an ideal location now."

"Why relocate, Highness?" Laiquisyar asked. "I know we must contend with the water, but the Host put much effort into building up some resemblance of a home here."

"An effort that took not even an hour to tear apart," Carnistir interjected before he could reply. "We fled because we did not know the limits of those Valaraukar, something we still do not know."

"My brother is correct, though I am of as much reluctance as you, my lord," Makalaurë conceded with a sigh. "With my own hands I helped with the construction of the healing ward that is now destroyed, built up Maitimo's and my own shelter that is now undoubtedly burnt. I know of the sweat our people gave for their labor, but these last days proved us unsafe here. Granted, with Moringotto out there we are probably unsafe anywhere, but I do not know why my sire decided upon this lot of the Grey Fields and, unless my caution is unfounded, I consider it at least a little safer in the fields beyond the river."

"I do not think he ever truly decided, Makalaurë," Yánadur said contemplatively. His head was tilted as he examined the map, but by the glaze over his eyes it was clear he was not actually looking at it. "Fëanáro impressed the need to chart the lands of our passage, but it is a massive undertaking in this foreign and vast Endórë, and even he was wary of doing so without settling in some manner first. The Host needed a place to call home for the time being. As of now, there was no differentiation between both sides of the river. As you said, the Grey Fields are habitable and we are near a boundless source of water. This field was as good to settle on as the next."

Makalaurë slowly nodded. "That makes sense. And I know it is farfetched to believe the other side of the river is any safer from Moringotto's reach than where we stand now, but there is a chance it may."

Curufinwë had been studying the map with an intellectual's intensity and he now shuffled forward to lean across the table, tapping at another point in the basin of the mountains. "If protection by distance with a barrier of water is what you are thinking, why not migrate south of the Lake? South and then west over the South-river? We would have not only two rivers but also the Lake between us and the eastern mountains." Several pairs of eyes, including Makalaurë's, turned down to the area he was addressing.

Makalaurë hummed as he studied it, his face twisting in uncertainty.

"Do not forget the southern mountains," Tyelkormo added pointedly.

Makalaurë glanced at him and then back at the map, slightly frowning. "You are right. Southwest is ideal, but if the Enemy attempts to accost us from the southern mountains we would be impeded by the West-river if we were forced to flee again. Or the East-river if we were to relocate southeast of the Lake. Whereas in the north, there would be no rivers to stop us. And we still have to fully scout those lands. Indeed, we have not even traveled the full length of the Lake's shores yet. Perhaps we will fortify our encampment south of the Lake in the future after we have scouted it, but for now, any uncharted wilderness can be dangerous to us, especially if the Enemy knows those lands while we do not. And trapped between a curve of mountains and two running rivers is not ideal when compared to remaining north of the Lake." He glanced up and garnered the attention of both Yánadur and Yáravalto, both who raised inquisitive eyebrows at him. "We need to also maintain quick access and contact with the Mithrim," he stressed. "Though I have heard many Noldor loath to say it, we need those Elves right now. At least until we locate other Sindar, wherever in Endórë they might dwell."

Yáravalto made a face, eyes focused on nothing in particular. "I still question if that name is adequate enough to call these Moriquendi."

"It is a name I believe they would and should better appreciate," Yánadur argued, giving his fellow loremaster a wry glance. "They acted as though we offended their highest fathers and mothers when we called them 'Moriquendi'."

"But they are."

"A debate for another day," Makalaurë mildly rebuked, though the warning for silence was bright in his eyes. "As I spoke, I want any counsel you have to give to be swift. Do any of you have a better field to relocate the Host? Or counsel against the one I elect?" There were negative answers all around, whether by a shake of the head or a small murmur, and Makalaurë gave a solid nod. "Very well. Though the Host will not begin to move until after we return, I want the people remaining to strike up everything that survived both the fire and storm while we are gone and to make it ready for transport."

Several eyebrows shot up. "Gone, Highness?" Sinyalvë ventured.

"Where do you think I intend to go? I have a brother to find."

* * *

Elder King: "Chief of the Valar of Arda was he whom the Eldar afterwards named Manwë, the Blessed: the Elder King, since he was the first of all kings in Eä." [HoME _Myths Transformed_ X.378]


	9. To Find a Corpse

Name Index:  
Curvo = Curufín, abbr. of Curufinwë

* * *

 **Chapter 9:  
To Find a Corpse**

Makalaurë had given his word to everyone that he and a contingent of others would journey to the appointed place. But he now had to acknowledge that saying that and actually doing it were two different things. But over the course of his own travelling to this alleged midpoint of the steppes, Makalaurë was taking no chances.

Fifty archer units accompanied them under the command of Tyelkormo, the majority of them taking point and acting as forward scouts. Fifty more warriors from each of the three Companies also came, Vëantur and Yánadur leading those of the Minyahossë and Tatyahossë respectively while Makalaurë took up the command of those from the Nelyahossë himself. And then all of the remainder of the King's Guard, now only thirty warriors strong, marched with them as well, bringing the number of the throng of Noldor to nearly three hundred people. Under the rather vehement counsel of both Vëantur and Yánadur, Makalaurë and his brothers made the journey on horseback, despite the limited horses the herd currently numbered. Though they did not really anticipate any new assault from the Enemy, the Commanders were adamant in their insistence that, should any misfortune happen anyway, the sons of Fëanáro would be able to flee with the speed of the fastest steed.

"We lost Maitimo already," Vëantur had justified unwaveringly. "Do not think we can readily endure the loss of another son of our sire."

Even if he had any desire to contend it, Makalaurë had no cleverly crafted argument to refute the logic.

Though he knew no one could truly imagine what had went so wrong that not one Elf of Maitimo's delegation returned, Makalaurë was determined to not let one more Elf find himself dead out on these forsaken steppes. They followed the same instructions originally given to Maitimo by the Orc-speaker: sixteen leagues northeast from the base of the Ehtelë Sirion Pass unto what the Orc-speaker dubbed _Thangorodrim_. Neither Makalaurë nor any of those he took counsel with could determine if those bearings were true or if Maitimo had been forced to veer off completely from them, but it was the only course they had.

Beyond the mountains and after crossing the first five leagues, Makalaurë had pulled Tyelkormo aside during one of their rest periods. "I want eyes far ahead of the van," he had said. "Send out the archer units that swept our retreat on the last day of the battle, when we were bringing Atar back to the mountains. We do not know what spoiled Maitimo's plan, but I have no intention of finding out myself. Cover the ground a furlong out left, right, and forward and tell the units to match our pace. I want to maintain the steady march with the same halt every four hours."

Tyelkormo had nodded, twisting around to peer at the van. "I can have them rotate to report in and send ten of the units a further furlong ahead to scout. No real harm in that since the trail of the delegation has gone cold. Not even Huan can scent any resonance of recent life on this particular route." The hound, fast as always by Tyelkormo's side and so massive in build that he reached the Elf's waist, had given a bark at his master's words that was followed up by several abject yips, his ears lowered and eyes cast down. Tyelkormo looked down at him with a wan smile, running his fingers over the hound's shaggy head. "If anything of a suspicious nature lies ahead of us, the scouts will find it. And if the delegation really did meet its end…well." He shrugged, but there was a stony look in his eyes. "Then they shall report the sighting of their bodies well in advance, at least."

Makalaurë had steadfastly returned his mind to the matter of safeguarding their band of Noldor. "Good enough for me. Tell a few units to remain behind, but organize the rest with Vëantur and your Captains. You have an hour."

They continued onward, league after league passing under their feet and the range of mountains behind them gradually disappearing from sight. The band of Noldor made their way across the vacant plains as a group, the warriors of the three Companies having arranged themselves in a ring around the sons of Fëanáro and the two Commanders with them. All the while those of the King's Guard presently led by Aldëon divided themselves among Makalaurë and his brothers with orders from Aldëon and both Commanders to not let one of them out of their sights. The archer units a furlong ahead of the van were still in sight, but far enough along that they were able to give ample warning of any impending attack. In this darkness they would see it quicker than any of the main troop. The ten units ahead were spread out into a line abreast, each unit of Elves fifty paces from their neighbor. And then ten additional units a further furlong ahead were scouting more diligently for even a morsel of a trace of Maitimo's trail. Another five units formed a similar screen to the rear, while those remaining of the Pilindossë and Ehtyari divided themselves to ride on either side of the command group on parallel paths over a hundred paces out.

Makalaurë could hardly deny that it was the one advantage they did have traveling across such a bare, rather featureless wilderness. That they were able to deploy guards across a wide space without the constant visual of them being obstructed by trees or other natural features. They could see any impending attack well in advance from an impossibly long ways out.

But Maitimo had had that advantage too.

His headache worsened.

Makalaurë glanced around, not turning his eyes forward again until they had briefly settled on each face of his brothers. It was a habit he had been doing more and more frequently, he realized. The twins were together towards his left, speaking softly to each other and Makalaurë's eyebrows drew together slightly as he wondered just what they could be discussing with such grave looks on their faces. Carnistir rode on his opposite side while Tyelkormo was further ahead with Captains Ehticánë and Ingorion of the Ehtyari and Pilindossë respectively.

And Curufinwë had remained behind at the Lake to lead the Host in their absence.

Valar, had that been a conversation.

"He is my Valar be damned brother!" he had protested vehemently, eyes bright with fury. "As much as yours! Sweet Yavanna, Káno, I walked every step of that distance no less than you – to and beyond the river and back! – haunted by the knowledge that my beloved brother who held me as a babe was most certainly dead! And now you dare bid me remain behind?"

Makalaurë had concentrated on taking a very deep, very steadying breath. He had removed them from the encampment a short ways to obtain some manner of privacy, particularly when it was easy to predict that his brother would not be pleased. But he still found himself slowly flexing his fingers with a rising sense of frayed aggravation. "Curvo," he had eventually replied with a forced calm to his voice, "someone has to remain here with the Host while we go to learn what became of the delegation. I would rather that you be with us, but one of Atar's sons needs to stay to lead the Noldor during our absence, to strike up the camp since we will be gone for at least three weeks."

"And I am elected?" His voice rose to an incredulous note, the anger in it not having dissipated in the slightest. "Have I no less right than you to retrieve the body of my brother? Than Tyelkormo or Carnistir? Than the twins? Pray speak why not one of them instead remains behind? Damn it all, Káno, he is my brother too!" he had ended on desperate note, the indignation in his face beginning to crack as glimmers of anguish forced their way to the surface.

"I know." His voice shook with the two words. "But one of us must remain and you have Telpë yet to consider."

"Do not dare use my son as the excuse to justify your bidding!"

"What do you want from me, Curufinwë?" he demanded with a wild, helpless gesture of his hands. "Someone must stay here and yes, I use the excuse of your son because he is the only excuse I have! Twice Maitimo bid me not to fail our sire now. Do not make me repeat his words to you!"

Those words had silenced any further argument from Curufinwë, but Makalaurë ventured it was only because neither of them wanted to delay the leave-taking of what amounted to a fair portion of the Noldohossë any longer than they already had. Makalaurë gave a small shake of his head at recalling the discussion, not particularly looking forward to having to face him again when they returned.

He was pulled from the recollection when he sensed a presence on his right. Vëantur, also mounted, was guiding his steed up alongside Makalaurë's. "I begin to understand why their prudence may have been foiled."

Makalaurë looked at him. The Commander appeared as stalwart as always, his bearing composed even if his face was grim, but he could see the apprehension in Vëantur's eyes that he most certainly felt dwarfed by himself. Though the calm appearance was countered by the filth that embedded his tresses of dark hair and dusted the plates of unblemished armor. The wind out upon these plains was vicious, the scent of burnt coal even stronger out here, and Makalaurë had lost count of the number of times he had impatiently swept whipping hair from his face or unsnagging it as it wrapped around the folds of his pauldrons. Not a glimmer of starlight shone and Makalaurë had to confess to being rather impressed that Maitimo had been able to keep his bearings on these aimless steppes, if he had in fact not unwittingly deviated from his course. But he presumed his brother had used Thangorodrim as a guide in the distance as they were doing now. For even with all the darkness and this misplaced dust obscuring their vision, those three peaks were always visible.

"Yes," Makalaurë sullenly answered. "That suspicion grows in my mind the further we see more changes in these lands."

"I know, and we still have four leagues to travel. If these boulders increase in number it is feasible they may have been ambushed."

Makalaurë could not disagree, however much he wished their observations of this place suggested otherwise. He glanced around him, more cursory than anything since he was now well acquainted with the sight of towering rock in ghastly formations, with no set pattern to how they littered the wide steppes. These flat plains were so empty, so barren of even the smallest resemblance of life beyond the trampled grass that sleep remained far from Makalaurë come the end of each day, if he would have even been able to sleep at all. Not that he was complaining about the grass or the occasional thicket of shrubs, even if both looked like they desperately needed water, but it was strange and felt almost wrong being able to see for leagues out and not lay sight on any copses of trees.

"If I may suggest, Highness," Vëantur went on after a discomforting silence. "Our venture is urgent, I know, but upon our return we should gather what information and knowledge we can of these steppes. It could be vital if there were ever any upcoming confrontations with the Enemy to be battled in this area of Endórë."

"It is being done as we speak." He gave a grim smile. "Those selected by my brothers are assigned the added task to take notice of any significant features of these flatlands – hills, cliffs, tors, foliage, streams, though a couple of those are probably laughable. I exempted Tyelkormo from the assignment, busy with leading the archer units as he is, but during each break those Elves go and speak to the twins and Carnistir what they have to report. And then during each main rest my brothers come to me so that we might compare all we have seen – or not seen, more likely – so we can keep all the observations as accurate as possible. When we return, I will set the mapmakers to chart what notes we have made under the supervision of those who actually made this journey. Or more so the twins. They surveyed the wilds of Hísilómë so well that I think Atar was planning to send them abroad beyond the mountains southward."

"Ah." A thoughtful look crossed his face as Vëantur harrumphed musingly. "I feel almost left out."

"You are not banned from our discussions of this place," he said mildly. "Yánadur has often provided his own input."

"He was high in the friendship of Fëanáro, though, and is held in close amity by his sons," he added with a discreet glance his way. "I did not know you spoke of charting the steppes when you gathered with your brothers."

"What did you think we spoke of?" Vëantur provided no answer, but his face transmuted into one of slight discomfort and Makalaurë looked at him knowingly. "Maitimo?" Vëantur looked away and Makalaurë gave a stiff nod. "Yes. Well. It is not a topic we exactly talk about. Every day of this last fortnight I looked to see if he was coming over the mountains."

The words were spoken just as stiffly, but again, Vëantur remained silent.

Come the next lengthier period to rest when Makalaurë wrapped himself up in his cloak and laid his head down on his haversack, he found himself staring up at the black sky. The endless drone of wind singing a baneful tune among the boulders was recurrently broken by the subtle sounds of those many guards on watch. The scouts' reports to Tyelkormo and then him echoed in his mind. They were nearly there. Two more leagues, and the landscape was worsening in its change. His heart began to pound. With a frustrated sigh, he rolled onto his side to find himself facing the twins who lay side by side. He did not know whose back was to him, but he deliberately shut his eyes against the sight of russet hair falling loose from its braid. Not like it made a difference when the image of Maitimo swam maddeningly in front of his eyelids anyway. Standing. Bleeding. Dying. His striking face twisted in the panic and then the despair he must have been feeling as he saw Elves one by one falling. Or maybe he had fallen first.

His heart pounded harder, mouth going dry. In a flurry of movement Makalaurë stood from the ground, clipping his sword to his belt and walking away. Like the five times before when he should have slept, he spent the time circling the perimeter to speak with the guards on watch.

O = O = O

When Makalaurë saw the scout running towards them he grew so lightheaded that he gripped the pommel. A solid pit forming in his stomach, he held up a hand to bid the company halt and, the cadence of their steps slowing to a stop, he watched as Tyelkormo up ahead bent down from atop his steed to hear the words of the archer. He saw their lips moving, saw the archer gesturing up ahead. Just as the Elf sped off again in the direction he came from, Tyelkormo twisted around in his saddle, finding Makalaurë's eyes.

"Just ahead."

Makalaurë drew in a shallow breath that came out shuddering. From the corner of his eye he saw Vëantur and Yánadur exchange a glance, but he did not dare turn his eyes to anyone. Not even Tyelkormo. He whipped his gaze away to stare into dark void that loomed ahead between arbitrary columns of spiking rock. He gestured towards Vëantur.

"Forward!" the Commander lightly called, just loud enough to carry.

Onward they went, not more than a furlong. Tyelkormo had ordered torches to be kindled halfway there and, when the first glimmer of armor was seen reflecting the light as it fell within range of the torches, a deadly silence fell over the warriors behind the van. They had been silent already, but it now swiftly transmuted into something chilling, something that Makalaurë could feel at his back. He saw Vëantur stiffen beside him and heard the twins' quick inhales of breath. Those bearing torches moved on ahead and, body by body, the field of corpses was illuminated.

Hundreds lay in a haphazard heap. Countless Orc carcasses, already ghastly and horrid to look at, now more so when dead. But up towards the end of the field, a spear jutted out at a low angle from the ground, the butt most likely caught and anchored between two fallen bodies. A bloodied pennant hung from just below the spearhead, the Star of Fëanáro barely visible beneath the dark streaks coating it. But littered among all the carcasses of Orc were Elves, their bodies strewn in whatever manner they had died on top or beneath Orcs or each other. Elf after Elf, lying immobile and some with lifeless eyes still open, their armor speckled and splattered with dried blood. Elf after Elf, one after another.

They were all dead.

All dead.

Makalaurë stared at the slaughter, motionless. As much as he had dreaded this sight, as much as he had expected it since their flight across the river, as much as he had gone to prepare himself to face it these last two weeks, it still hit him hard. Like a weight slammed into his chest and knocked all the air from his lungs and then some. His heartbeat was fast, but it hurt. Valar, it hurt. Like the muscle forgot how to work properly, and for a moment his heart was beating so erratically that he wondered if it would fail him completely.

He did not realize that he was gripping the pommel of his saddle until it slowly filtered through his brain that his fingers ached. "Find him." The words came out in a coarse whisper, for even his tongue did not seem to want to work properly. Everything felt one step removed. "Find him!" he said louder, and he did not know what it was within him that was holding him together. What it was that immediately took over after being faced with a bloodbath such as this. What it was that could keep him calm and collected when all he wanted to do was scream.

Carnistir was the first to shake himself from the motionlessness that had settled over his frame. Makalaurë could not see his face, but his brother flew from his saddle, moving towards the rear of the mass of bodies. His action made other warriors erupt into motion and even Vëantur shook himself, forcibly masking off the horror that had briefly shown in his face. Orders fell from his lips and Elves moved to obey them, running out to take up positions among the many rocks while others went among the many bodies, treading lightly. The twins and Tyelkormo dismounted too, moving as fast as they could in the dark. Makalaurë forced himself to do the same.

Though when he landed on his feet, he straightened and turned away, walking a few steps in no particular direction. He tangled his fingers in his hair and he tilted his head up, staring up between the peaks of the rock towering around them. There were swirling wisps of dust blowing up there, illuminated only by the meager light of the torches below. The swirls seemed to blur and it took him a moment to realize that it was his eyes that grew blurry. He blinked, trying to suppress the wailing mess he could feel rising to the surface, right up his throat. His chest tightened. His breath quickened. His body felt heated. Valar, he thought he had been ready for this. But his pounding heart was still hurting his ribs, or maybe it was the heart itself that ached. No. Just…No. No. No. His throat closed up and he distantly noted that his scalp hurt from the way his fingers were gripping the strands. He could not think. His eyes burned and for a moment he thought he would break down here and now. But he could not. Quaking, tenuous control was all he had.

Fraying though they were, he pulled on the strings of his will and turned back around, forcing himself to walk among the bodies. He felt himself grow faintly sick, his fëa twisting with illness as he looked, actually looked at the Elven corpses. Not because they were dead in truth. He had seen killed Elves before. Valar, he had killed Elves himself. But this….Their bodies must have been left out here from the moment they had been killed over three weeks ago. Already they had started to decompose. Grey skin had sunken far, the sharp angles and structure of their skulls grotesquely protruding beneath the sallow skin. And the skin itself of the face and neck and hands had blistered with parts flaking off at heavy bursts of wind. He dreaded to imagine what had become of the body beneath the attire. Listless and almost colorless hair was fraying and breaking like brittle twigs of hay. Muscles had disintegrated to reveal nothing but a skeletal structure and more than a few teeth and black, frail nails had fallen out. And the Orc carcasses were even worse.

Even as he observed all this, an overwhelming stench hit his nose and Makalaurë had to cover it with his hand unless he heaved then and there. Rotting. All rotting. Elf after Elf he passed, gingerly stepping over them, and even as the turmoil of grief and rising disbelief churned in him, an impossible fury rose up as well. Hot fury at the blatant ignominy given to each and every one of these Noldor, left where they had been slain to just rot away. Not buried, by Manwë, not even burned! They had become so decomposed that he could barely recognize the faces beneath the helms, some covered in blood and all of them with sunken eyes or, in the case of those who had died with their eyes open, empty sockets. A memory tapped the back of his mind, one of hunting with Maitimo and Tyelkormo in the vast forests west of Tirion. They had come across a fawn long killed by a predator, flesh torn off from its hind legs and flanks, and even that creature had looked healthier than these Elves now did. He could not remove his eyes from the faces of the Elves, the people who had gone with his brother in good faith.

A sudden sense of rising horror dwarfed him. Oh Valar. How would he be able to stomach the sight of his own brother?

Images popped up mercilessly in his mind and he nearly stumbled on the next corpse. Both alarm and then dismay washed over Makalaurë as he stared at the Elf, unmoving.

Aráto.

The guard captain was barely recognizable, but just enough of his features remained distinguishable. And the sword specially crafted for him rested alongside him in a way that bespoke of it having fallen from his hand before he himself had collapsed to the ground. That sword Makalaurë would recognize anywhere. He could see that the Captain had died from a strike to the throat, that an Orc had managed to land his blow in just the correct motion so that it slipped between the narrow gap of his helm and right pauldron. The gash was thick and deep, now gaping wide, and it was clear that the Elf had bled out quickly. Makalaurë wondered what had been the last thought running through Aráto's mind as he lied there, staring up at the fighting going on around him, gargling on his own blood.

Great Manwë….

"Vëantur! Yánadur!"

The shout burst from his chest rigidly as he continued to gaze at Aráto, unable to remove his eyes. Among the many cautious steps over bodies, he heard two sets hasten towards him and looked up as the two Commanders came near. Both their faces were unreadable, but a heavy shadow haunted their eyes.

"Has he been found?" Makalaurë asked quietly. Damn it all, why could he not stop the tremor in his voice?

Yánadur gave a short shake of his head. "Not yet. Several are searching, your brothers among them. I was about to join them."

"We found Sornion," Vëantur added tonelessly, distress entering his face for all that he tried to subdue it. "He looks to have been hit on the underside of the ribs with one of those axes Orcs are prone to wield. And he was almost decapitated."

Makalaurë stared at him. "Almost?"

He nodded, a sickly look twisting his expression. "It was attached by a length of flesh at the base of the neck."

Makalaurë closed his eyes as he turned away, taking a deep breath and trying to quell the bilious taste that was rising in his throat.

"What should we do with them, Makalaurë?" Yánadur asked to his back. "We cannot leave them like this. It is a disgrace enough that they were made to rest among these carcasses."

Makalaurë nodded, casting a brief glance around at the countless bodies strewn between the walling of boulders, the bed of rocks covered everywhere in dried blood. Over sixty Elves slain, but what must have been well over a hundred Orcs had to have been slain with them. He felt a dark swelling of grim pleasure at that observation. He turned back to Vëantur and Yánadur, folding his arms rather stiffly over his breastplate. "We cannot bring them back. Not like this. Even enwrapped in a shroud as we had done with my grandfather's body, I would not want their last memory of them held by their families or friends to be as they look now."

Vëantur nodded, looking down at Aráto. He grimaced. "I agree. It is rather baffling that no carrion birds fly above us, let alone feast on their flesh. Or that bugs have not either."

"Or mayhap it is a mercy of Manwë," Yánadur murmured, though there was little conviction in his voice. "It pays tribute to this new lifelessness of the steppes, anyway." He focused on Makalaurë. "Have you a solution?"

Makalaurë paused, frowning in thought. He took a deep breath. "From each Elf take up the helm, sword, and shield." He glanced down at Aráto whose body was bereft of a shield for some reason. Makalaurë flitted his gaze around the surrounding ground, but it was nowhere in the vicinity either. "Or the breastplates of those without a shield. And be gentle when working the buckles. Attempt your best to identify each warrior beforehand, for the swords we will return to their kinsmen. If an Elf came to Endórë with no family, then the sword will be given to their friend close enough in heart to claim it, and the helms to the coffers until we may honor them in a more honorable fashion." His voice lowered. "The shields and breastplates we will gather and bury them in place of their bodies upon our return. Of their remaining armor and weapons, take what can be salvaged for melting and recasting if they are too damaged to reuse."

"And what of their bodies, my lord?" Vëantur's voice was just as soft.

"They will be burned." He said the words resolutely, even though it tasted bitter to say it. "They must be. But not with the filth of Orc." He looked around briefly and gestured towards the way they had come about two hundred paces back, to where the horses patiently stood where they had been dismounted, shaking their manes or twitching their tails. "Again, be gentle, but take up each body and remove it beyond the steeds. In two rows lay them shoulder to shoulder, interlocking the first with the second row at their heads. I would we could give them a proper ceremony, but my brothers and I will kindle the fire together."

There was a noticeable pause. "What of Maitimo?" Vëantur asked, his face troubled. Makalaurë looked at him and Vëantur winced at whatever he saw in his face. He held up both hands warily. "I know what you think, Makalaurë," he went on with open sincerity, and not a little grief. "That it would be unjust to bear him back to the encampment while we leave the others to burn on this Eru-forsaken steppe. But bring him back, Makalaurë. Veil him in a cloak until we may weave him a proper burial garment. His body may be stiff, may even break during the return journey, but bring him back. So many people loved him, even those who had marched under another's banner. And the band of Noldor who marched under Maitimo's was the greatest in number among the Host, second only to Fëanáro. And the Elves who marched with Maitimo and Fëanáro combined made up well over half of the Host. We were left not with the body of your father to honor. Let us bestow the honor unto that of Maitimo's that we could not give your sire."

Makalaurë was shaking. And he knew the two of them could see it. He nodded, his jaw clenching. "Give the orders," he said roughly. "And find him. I want no one to handle him but myself and my brothers."

"Of course, Highness," Yánadur intoned, glancing sidelong at Vëantur. Both of them gave small bows before turning around and walking away, exchanging quiet words that Makalaurë was too clouded in mind to even bother to try and make out.

Makalaurë looked down again at Aráto's nearly unrecognizable face and his ravaged neck. With a quick gathering of resolve, he knelt, removing the gauntlets from his hands. He reached out, hesitating with a grimace before quickly working his fingers under Aráto's chin to undo the buckle of the helm. Skin flaked off with every brush of his knuckles and the flesh was so cold that nausea nearly twisted his stomach all over again. The strap loosened, he began working the helm off his head as gently as he could. But it was a snug fit and more than once he had to exert a substantial amount of effort. As he went to remove it from his head, Aráto's body was so stiff that it rose with it instead of bending at the neck, but the helm came loose and the body fell back to the ground with a light shifting of dust. He released a breath he had not realized he had been holding.

Wiping the light perspiration off from his brow, he reached for the sword and unclipped the scabbard from Aráto's side, sheathing the bloodied blade. All the weapons and armor returning would have to be cleaned before anything else, but that arduous task would be argued about later. Slipping the hilt of the sword into the helm, he laid both aside, moving next to the strappings of the breastplate. This took far longer to remove and proved to be far more difficult. But it came free with a jerk, dust falling from its sides that had been gathered from three weeks of wild winds. Makalaurë almost dry heaved at the sight of a chest cavity, the structure of the ribs having caved in. By the grace of Eru, Aráto had not deserved this end. Not this wanton disregard of the body that had housed his faithful fëa for over two Ages.

Squashing down the horrid feeling that he was being discourteous by removing his eyes from Aráto, Makalaurë stood, breastplate clasped in one hand and the sword and helm in the other. Just as he was raising his eyes to give a cursory glance around, he saw his Second not far away, obviously meaning to bypass him completely. "Orostámo!" he lightly called. The fair-haired Elf came to an abrupt halt, the dark gold of his tresses bespeaking of his Vanyarin heritage, and he cast a questioning glance at his liege. Makalaurë gestured him forward with the sword.

"Has he been found?"

Orostámo shook his head, looking as though he had just endured a long battle himself. "Not yet, Highness. I will join the search if you will it of me."

It was then Makalaurë took true notice of the sword, helm, and shield that his Second carried, the shield bearing a great fracture on its base. To make such unyielding steel bend it must have been struck with a mighty blow, and Makalaurë distractedly wondered if the shield had saved the Elf to fight a while longer or if that had been the blow that ultimately led to his being killed. He gestured towards the armaments. "Whose do you carry?"

Orostámo looked down at them. "Illúmëon." He looked away, gnawing at his lip. "He was but a spearman, marching under the banner of Tyelkormo, but we camped many a night together during our crossing of Hísilómë. I will return for the body after placing these next to my own haversack."

Makalaurë nodded. "I would that the arms of each warrior be borne back by one who knew him, but to Tyelkormo give the shield upon our return the encampment." Orostámo raised an eyebrow and he gave a firm nod. "We have not the time for it to be explained to all one by one, but you will see."

Orostámo bowed at his words, the movement somewhat hindered by the extra armaments, but he walked on towards the way he had been going, towards the way Makalaurë now saw many if not all of the Elves who had accompanied them had dropped their previsions and satchels before spreading out among the field of dead. But when he turned further, he nearly startled with a leap as he realized that Aldëon was standing silently not two steps behind him.

Taking a quick gasp for breath, he nearly berated the Elf but held his tongue when he saw the temporary commander of the King's Guard staring down at the decaying body of Aráto with empty eyes. Makalaurë relented with a sigh, but then wondered what Aldëon had come to him for in the first place. He regarded him with a look of both hope and dread. "Have they found him?"

Aldëon also shook his head and Makalaurë grit his teeth at the sudden surge of frustration. By the mallet of Aulë, what was taking so long? His brother was not that particularly difficult to distinguish from the others.

Aldëon seemed to sense something of what he was feeling since, with partially widened eyes, he stepped back with a bow of his head. "Forgive me, my prince," he said contritely. "I fear my mind to be unfit for a warrior at present."

Makalaurë sighed again. "I am no better," he muttered. With a thoughtful glance he looked from Aldëon to Aráto and back again. His eyes softened. "Would you bear his body to the grounds?"

Aldëon looked back down at Aráto and nodded, swallowing thickly. "Pray let me," he whispered.

Makalaurë stepped back. "Pray honor him as well by bearing his arms back to the encampment," he added with a subtle raise of the sword, helm, and breastplate. "I have those of my own brother to bear."

Aldëon finally looked at him, eyes swimming with poorly concealed misery and his brow furrowed over them. "None would fault you if you looked for Prince Maitimo, Highness. For all that he is –" He grimaced. "–was our uncrowned king, he was your brother. No one would blame you."

"I know."

A loud moment of silence followed before Aldëon took the items from Makalaurë's hands, slipping the sword in the opposite side of his sword belt, buckling the helm around the cross-guard of the sword and somehow manipulating the guige of his own shield so that the breastplate was strapped to his back alongside it. Makalaurë shifted away as the guard called to another of the King's Guard to help lift the body.

Making his way back to the mounts, he distractedly patted his own on the flank before going beyond the steed to the five Elves that had so far been laid down shoulder to shoulder. He stood off to the side, gazing at the face of each Elf now relieved of a helm. He thought he recognized one or maybe two of them, but it was just too difficult to tell anymore.

Even as he had the thought another Elf, lifted by the feet and shoulders, was delivered by two other Elves and laid in his proper place. Makalaurë could barely recognize him either. Shame filled him that he could not, even though he knew to feel shame at it was irrational. But it ate at him nonetheless. He lifted his eyes and narrowed them in the dark, watching the many Elves moving around and he wagered half were spread out among the many boulders to keep guard, some even standing sentinel on top of them, bows held at the ready with arrows nocked. The other half was moving among the massacre, their steps slow and prudent, going about their tasks in utter silence.

One by one, Elves shorn of their armaments was delivered to the growing mound, laid alongside another corpse. One by one, Makalaurë looked upon each face as he was laid, gut twisting with each new body.

None of them were Maitimo.

He had no clue how he would react when it finally was.

His heart began pounding again. Twenty-two of the first row of thirty were laid out and, when he cast his eyes up, he saw five more being carried over, barely visible in the cast of the torches held up by those standing at intervals to light the way between the mound and the mass of corpses. He watched as Vëantur and Yánadur both carried a body between them on a dust-laden cloak, a body that Makalaurë presumed and then confirmed to be Sornion as they neared. Makalaurë felt his stomach curl at the sight of his head almost completely separated from his shoulders. Morbid curiosity made him wonder how the two of them had transferred Sornion on top of the cloak without the rest of the neck tearing, but he banished the thought. The slain Commander's shield, helm, and sword were carried by Vëantur in the same manner as Aldëon had donned Aráto's. And as they laid the Elf down at the end of the line, Makalaurë wondered if Sornion had fought by Maitimo's side. If he had valiantly, if futilely guarded his brother's life unto the end of his own. If Maitimo had seen him fall. If Maitimo had faltered at the death of his faithful Second.

Makalaurë ran both hands over his face, which were shaking again, curse it all. "Have they found him?" he forced out.

Vëantur and Yánadur straightened before removing themselves to stand near Makalaurë, the latter turning to him with a forlorn look. "No, Makalaurë. Not yet."

Makalaurë released another frustrated sigh, a sense of incredulity overcoming him as he bit out a curse. "What mockery is this? Had they shredded apart his body or something as to leave nothing to find?"

Yánadur rested a hand on his shoulder, giving him a gentle shake. "Be calm. We have only gathered half of the Elves. Your brothers are searching along with many others, but there are endless carcasses of Orc to cast aside. Sornion was found beneath two of them."

Makalaurë wearily nodded, unable to speak. Valar, he could not do this.

Silence fell and by some mutual agreement they maintained it, whether out of difficulty to even speak or out of respect for the Elves being carried over and lowered onto the hard ground. Makalaurë wanted to believe it was the latter. It was the least these Elves deserved. The first row of thirty Elves ended and the second one began, mirroring the first with their heads resting between each other's. Thirty Elves, then forty, then fifty. A disconcerted knot began forming in Makalaurë's stomach and more than once now he saw Vëantur and Yánadur exchanging troubled glances.

"Where is he?" he whispered, eyes alighting on each Elf as he was gently placed on the ground. He did not need to look at the putrefying face to know. Even if the tresses were as dried and decaying as all the others, the hue of Maitimo's copper hair stood out as starkly as the torches did. And every person knew by now to call him the moment he was found.

Neither Vëantur nor Yánadur echoed the latter's earlier words of reassurance. Both looked from the mound to the field of littered bodies, but, almost as one, their eyes sharpened on something in the murky distance and Yánadur reached out clumsily towards Makalaurë until his hand found his upper arm. "Makalaurë –"

Makalaurë was already turning to look. The twins ran towards him, jumping in and out of the dark with each new cast of torchlight. They carried a shield and a helm and, when they came to a stop in front of him, Makalaurë did not need to even hear their words to know who they belonged to.

"We found his helm and shield," Pityafinwë said, his voice strained. "They were beneath Orcs at the van."

Makalaurë stared at them, dismay growing as he studied the pieces of armor. The shield, emblazoned with his brother's three-star branch insignia, was blackened and sullied with black streaks of blood. But the buckles of the retaining strap were warped and broken, as though they had been stretched beyond the point of the leather's endurance. That alone told enough to Makalaurë, but the helm….He felt his chest tighten as a wave of cataclysm washed over him. The helm told the story well enough. On the right side were three minor cracks sprouting from a rent in their center where the metal had fractured. Makalaurë could only imagine the power the blow needed to have dealt such damage. A strike to the head. Had it ended his life or encumbered him just enough for that fatal swing of a blade to fall?

"Makalaurë!"

His head snapped up at the near yell, realizing that he had gone to drown out his surroundings again, and found himself faced with a distraught pair of eyes. "He is not here," Telufinwë stressed, expression open with anxiety.

Makalaurë stared at him. "What?" he demanded after the words had filtered through his brain. He shot a sharp look at the two Commanders only to find their faces mirroring his own.

Both the twins shook their heads. "His shield and helm were all we found," Pityafinwë went on, looking down at the helm he clenched in his hands. "Nor could we locate his sword. But he is not here. All the Elves have been removed and brought hither, or are yet being carried. But Káno…Maitimo is not here!" he ended on a mildly desperate note.

Makalaurë continued to stare at them, eyes growing wider, before he shot his gaze into the distance, squinting his eyes as he willed them to see in the dark. There were many Noldor still going about, guarding or moving among the Orcs. But two silhouetted shapes, Tyelkormo and Carnistir he presumed, were moving swiftly among the bodies, their steps and even leaps over the corpses frantic and hurried. All the Elves still in the field were searching with an urgency that they had before been without, shoving Orc bodies aside or rolling them over.

Not here.

"What…."

His eyes flew from the twins to Vëantur and Yánadur and back again, a newfound anxiety sprouting at the horror he saw growing in their eyes that matched the same that was rising in his own chest. Almost against his will, Makalaurë's eyes rose to gaze further into the distance, out to where those three towering peaks remained obstinately visible in the darkness.

Oh Valar….

Oh Eru, no.


	10. Awake, Your Majesty

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 **Chapter 10:** **  
** **Awake, Your Majesty**

The slamming impact against the hard ground jolted Maitimo awake.

A pained groan tore from his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut as he cringed at the searing agony that happily lanced through his skull. It traveled on down through the rest of his body, pulsating with every beat of his heart, and settled at the base of his spine in particular. But compared to his head….Valar, his head hurt. He groaned again, head slumping to the side as he tried to figure out just why his body felt like mush against the ground. A big pile of mush. He dragged in a few more exhausted breaths before lifting his hand to cradle his forehead. To do something to massage the pain away, as if that would even work. It was only then, when the lifting of his right hand pulled the other one with it, that he realized that his hands were bound together.

Wait.

….Bound?

What?

Eyes. Needed to open eyes, but why did his eyelids feel like they were pasted shut? Maitimo shook that question off and with a valiant effort he managed to pry them open a crack and he strained to see whatever he was looking at. Which was nothing. Or maybe nothing. Maybe. His brain had no time to register anything he might have seen because at the mere, slight opening of his eyes, his vision swam maddeningly and he was nearly overwhelmed by a sudden bout of nausea, a feeling that only increased when his body wracked with a convulsion in response. He felt bile rise in his throat and it was only by sheer willpower that he managed to keep it down. Valar, it felt like a knife was stabbing him through his skull, and said skull only again went on to throb with abandon, wave after wave of that unbearable pain washing over his cranium and down into his body, though now he was able to isolate the source of the pain to the right side of his head, just above his temple. It was that part that continued to throb ceaselessly, at least, to the point that it made tears sting the corners of his eyes. He lifted his hand again – or both of them, rather – and delicately threaded his fingers through his hair to hold his head. He almost whimpered.

Valar, his head hurt.

He waited for the pain to recede and, slowly but surely, it did, at least to a gentler pounding. He let out a small sigh of relief when the nausea began to dissipate too, however much his stomach still felt one swallow away from rebelling. He slowly drew in several gulping breaths, willing that bilious sensation to go away, but every throb of his head only seemed to exacerbate every other sickly sensation his body was unrelentingly making him aware of.

For one, breathing was not supposed to hurt. He knew that for a fact no matter how much his head was spinning. But his throat was hurting too. Badly. Every time he drew in a ragged breath it seemed as if it was resisting the effort, as if someone had taken a belt and tightened it until everything in his neck had been cinched together. Every attempt to inhale air was a struggle and sent a searing burn throughout his throat while his lungs felt as though someone had scrubbed the insides of the tissue with their claws. But even that tenderness was still a fickle thing compared to the misery of his skull. He tightened his grip against his head, the beds of his fingers deftly massaging the skin in a desperate attempt to alleviate the throbbing. Not that it mattered because it only ended up instigating more pain, something he realized a little too late when it finally filtered through his mind that the area must be a mass of bruises from how the surface felt deep-seated with fire with every press of his fingertips. Forget it. He dropped his arms back down, though with the bindings of his wrists his elbows could only drop alongside his ribs. He clenched his jaw in frustration as he struggled against the fastenings, his fingers actually tingling from how tight they were. But Valar, his head hurt!

It was only when he was convinced that his skull would stay knitted together after all that he realized he could hear. And not only that, but that he was hearing noise around him. A lot of noise. Some monstrous, rumbling undertone. That ear-grating clamor of metal on metal, some of the sounds soft and distant while others were so loud that it intensified the nails being hammered into his brain. And footsteps. So many strides going back and forth gracelessly, scraping abrasively on the ground. An Orc somewhere off to his left growled, the sound disturbingly close. Wait a moment. That monstrous rumbling he was hearing was not some faint groaning of the earth, but rather the incessant growling of many Orcs, all ranging in pitch and volume, but all snarling out whatever ridiculous speech Orcs communicated with –

He froze. Orcs….His head….

His eyes flew open.

Doing so had probably not been smart since the throbbing in his skull soared to unspeakable levels again, but the terror that suddenly dwarfed him was so overpowering that he could barely feel it. His gaze flicked around rapidly, the beginnings of panic already settling firmly in his chest before he could even register what he was seeing, though the answer was not long in coming. Orc after Orc littered his vision and his eyes were trying to jump from one to another, but there were just so many. Those coarse boulders of different heights broke up the throng of beasts, though it did not stop them from looking like a wall that was growing more tightly knitted together the more they moved around. Orcs disappeared behind the boulders while others appeared from the other side, guttural sounds growled out and sometimes roared as they did who knew what in the shadows. Maitimo felt a chill run down his spine at some of the noises he heard, noises he could put no visualizations to. There was not even one torch carried among this party of Orcs and he was somewhat amazed he could still see the fiends at all, dark as it was, especially when the skies above them were more thick with clouds than ever.

If he froze before, he froze even more now, refusing to even so much as twitch where he lay prostrate on the rock-strewn terrain, sharp chippings of gravel digging painfully into his shoulder blades. The panic was coursing faster through his veins the longer he lay there, so fiercely that he began to feel lightheaded. By the stars, had they heard him groan? He must have been dropped to the ground like a bushel of grain from the shoulder of whatever Orc had been carrying him. But had they heard his immediate mews of distress? Had they seen his squirms on the ground, small as they had been? His heart crawled up his throat at the possibility they had and his eyes swiveled furiously from Orc to Orc, barely breathing.

Nothing happened. Unless…no. It seemed like no one had realized yet that he was, in fact, awake. Several quick beats of his heart passed, but nothing happened to suggest that they knew he was conscious. Maitimo relaxed a little bit, his breaths coming a little slower now at that small relief, though he still did not so much as lift a finger. Valar, he did not care about the tremors that still made his muscles bunch up. He had been fortunate that his initial stirrings had gone unnoticed, curse it all! Even the smallest shift of a leg or arm could destroy the illusion he unwittingly woke with. But…no. Nothing. The Orcs were loitering around as if this were just a resting period of some sort. And he himself had just been an empty weight for them to dispose of during the break. That was good. He was still unconscious to them. Good. He relaxed a little bit further, willing the tension to sidle out of his limbs.

"Ah. Look who awakens."

Maitimo stiffened, closing his eyes in impending dread at that familiar voice. But he opened them again immediately, snapping his eyes over to the right. He almost cried out at the agony that split his skull as his head turned with the quick movement, but he forced that distraction to the wayside. He concentrated his gaze on the Orc-speaker, his body now growing still for a whole new reason.

The Orc-speaker looked down at him. There was no particular expression on his face, but by the unperturbed set of his shoulders and the almost lackadaisical posture of his broad body, he was content. Very content.

Maitimo did not move.

The Orc-speaker, however, did.

He stiffened further as the Orc-speaker crouched down beside him, dust stirring beneath his feet as he snapped his hand out. Maitimo flinched away at its sudden proximity before he could stop himself. Not that it mattered because those vice-like fingers closed the distance and clamped down on his head. A putrid stench overwhelmed his nostrils and he only just caught his breath before his head was being turned, and he could feel the clammy coldness of the Orc-speaker's fingers even through the thickness of his hair. He continued to watch the Orc-speaker from the corner of his eye, every sense on alert, but the Orc-speaker appeared to be merely inspecting him and Maitimo belatedly realized that this… _thing_ of Moringotto was examining his head wound.

A part of his mind screamed to lash out and fight the Orc-speaker's blatant show of dominance, but he could not move.

The Orc-speaker grunted, releasing his head with a slight shove. "It is well you have no severe concussion," he finally said. Maitimo only just stopped from cringing. Valar, the guttural quality of his voice was so atrocious that he could barely distinguish the words. "My Master was rather particular of your wellbeing. How honored you must feel."

Maitimo opened his mouth to speak, a vile retort springing to his lips, but as soon as the first rasps came from his voice, a sharp pain erupted along his neck, devastating enough to snap his mouth shut. Damn his idiocy, how could he have forgotten about his tender throat? His hands flew to his neck in a vain attempt to lessen the soreness as he blearily recalled the brutal suffocation by the beast now crouching so insouciantly over him.

The beast that was now observing where his hands had flown. The ghost of a smirk crossed his mouth. The Orc-speaker reached out again, running a single digit along the black and blue discoloration he knew ringed his neck. He rose to a stand, head cocked to the side. "My Master bid me deliver you functional," he explained rather glibly. "He spoke naught of you being delivered flawless."

Before Maitimo could even think of a response to that, a louder than normal growl came from his left.

He had no idea what happened next.

All the Orcs in the vicinity seemed to realize in unison that he was finally awake. Whether they came to that conclusion because their leader was talking to him or because of whatever twisted logic Orcs existed with, Maitimo could not guess. All he knew was that there was a pause in the air before a countless number of Orcs charged him at once. Eyes widening in shock, he shifted to spring to his feet. He did not have the slightest idea just what he would do, but survival instinct could not have been flaming hotter.

But mid-rise, he felt a hand on his back, fingers mercilessly clutching a fistful of his hair and shirt, and then he found himself suddenly flying backwards through the air, feet and all. Only a brief moment passed when he was suspended in air before landing on his side, crashing against the unyielding apexes of small rocks that lay in front of one of the larger boulders. The impact made his breath explode out of his lungs and he gasped for air as he rolled on his back, anchoring himself up on an elbow to at least act in some fashion, to do something, anything! But he froze at the sight he was met with.

The Orc-speaker stood with his broad back to Maitimo, stood between him and a ring of restless Orcs. Shouts and roars echoed along the rocks. Maitimo cringed openly this time, turning his face in against his arm as he felt his fëa twist at the hellacious sound of whatever black speech they exchanged. He convulsed, his whole body shaking and his elbow almost slipping to send him falling prostrate to the ground again. But he could not help turning his head back to watch them, too terrified by far to turn his attention elsewhere. But the shouting went on, the Orc-speaker shouting back. The many Orcs shuffled their feet, faces wreathed in a very real hate, but they came no closer to him. Maitimo eyebrows drew together. What in the name of Arda was happening?

An Orc to the left suddenly leapt forward. The Orc-speaker lunged for him, growling out some more of that speech as he bared his teeth at the Orc. The axe-bearing Orc retreated, snarling in clear anger. Maitimo stared, almost gawking. The Orc-speaker was shielding him from the Orcs, he realized. He looked on, expression unreadable, wholly nonplussed. Why?

 _Deliver you functional_. The Orc-speaker's last words echoed in his mind. He continued to stare as true understanding of their import dawned on him.

Oh Valar….

Swiftly enough, the throng of Orcs simmered down in their evident desire to charge him and do only the Valar knew what to him. They dispersed, one by one, returning to whatever thing they were doing prior to his waking up. But Maitimo could still hear them and he did not really know if he would rather see them with his eyes than leave his imagination free to conjure whatever visualization the many noises inspired.

The Orc-speaker remained where he stood for a while longer, until the majority of Orcs once again disappeared into the shadows. Then he turned, yellow eyes alighting on Maitimo and Maitimo tensed in anticipation. He could no longer deny it. The Orc-speaker's gaze was rapt and fell, yes, but there was a fey quality to it that could belong to nothing but a Maia and any remaining doubt, if there was one, that this creature was of that higher Order vanished. It was that distinctive raw power, that raw _darkness_ that was emanating from the Orc-speaker and that was now ailing his fëa all over again. By Aulë, it was a curious thing that the Orc-speaker did not even bother to conceal it. Why did he not? Did he want Maitimo to be aware of what he actually was? To know of his true origins? Or did he simply not care? Or did it simply not matter anymore? Maitimo suppressed a scoff. The latter rang to be the most true because, great Manwë, even if Maitimo became aware of any and all secrets kept from the Elves, he was powerless to do anything with them, just as there was absolutely nothing he could do with knowing the Orc-speaker was a Maia. He could have shaken his head. It actually, really did not matter.

The Orc-speaker came near, his steps slow and measured and his head was tilted partly to the side. His utter silence was a contrast to the Orcs grumbling away and Maitimo felt himself tense up even further, growing more and more disturbed by it. The Orc-speaker stopped at Maitimo's feet, eyes narrowing in a dangerous, yet almost curious stare.

"Nelyafinwë, King to Be," he guttered out, and Maitimo nearly flinched at the ghastly mangling of his own name again. Valar, no Firstborn speech was meant to be voiced by such foul tongues! "Of you my Master has taught me enough, so hear me if you believe yourself wise indeed. Perceive my words as pity, if it gladdens you, however well-deserved you are of all to come." He crouched down once more, the thrust of his sword scraping against the gravel, but he made no move to touch Maitimo. The fell light in his eyes, however, grew more intense and Maitimo was at pains to hold that gaze, but he would not break it. Refused to. The Orc-speaker paused as though waiting for a response, but Maitimo had nothing to say. Even if he could find the will to speak, he did not even know what he would say. He watched him warily.

"Now listen well," the Orc-speaker went on. "Your task is simple: come quietly. If you even think of running or be the cause of any such grievance, I will gladly swing the poll of an axe into your instep. But you see, past evidence has taught us that you Elves seem to believe fighting your fate will free you from it." The cords of muscle rippled along his forearms as he clenched his fists, and he gave what could be misconstrued as a smile. "So." The Orc-speaker stood. "Allow me to spare you the burden of such a misunderstanding."

So quick he was a blur, the Orc-speaker lunged down and grabbed hold of him. Maitimo threw up his hands to ward him off, but the Orc-speaker flicked them aside with an ease not found in any Orc, hauling Maitimo gracelessly to his feet with a clenched fist on both his shirt and the front of his leggings. With such ease as if he were weightless, the Orc-speaker bodily threw him and Maitimo felt himself sailing sideways through the air with such speed and force that when he crashed solidly against the wall of rock behind him, the air was ripped from his lungs and he felt a rib give way. He fell in a mass of limbs back onto the rock bed and lay there motionless as pain exploded across his body, his mouth open in a silent cry. He cringed, writhing feebly as he tried to support the pulsing excruciation on his right, but his bound hands prevented it. He gasped, but the inhale only exacerbated the rib and he cringed further. Valar. He had literally felt the rib break.

The Orc-speaker regarded him dispassionately, head once again cocked to the side. "Cannot run if you cannot breathe. Yes, you would have found little success in trying to flee even if wholly well and unhindered, but why borrow trouble?"

The Orc-speaker turned around and left. Maitimo heard his receding footsteps scrape against the ground but did not even bother to see where he went, could not find it within him to care. That swine had tossed him against the boulder with just the correct force and at just the correct angle to crack the middle rib, one of the ones that expanded the most when breathing. His face was sour as he struggled to sit up. He had to alter his earlier postulating. If there had been any doubt remaining as to the Orc-speaker's identity in the Order of Eä, _now_ it was completely gone. No Orc was capable of that amount of such casual strength. Valar, no Elf was capable of it! He collapsed against the face of the boulder as he finally managed to angle himself upright, gasping painfully for air. He let himself go limp as a wave of exhaustion washed over him.

He closed his eyes, leaning his head against the rock as he concentrated on lessening the pain that shot through his right side with even the smallest breath. Wonderful. Something now to keep in time with his fluttering heart and pounding head. He clenched and unclenched his jaw, his brows drawing close together and eyes squeezing shut tighter. Gradually but far too slowly, the pain began to recede, though not nearly enough. But in replacement of it, he immediately began to register the other ailments his body was trying to scream at his brain. Had been screaming for a while now, he realized.

Landing on it twice now, he was surprised the shingles of the rock bed had not punctured his skin. But Aulë help him, it felt as though someone had slammed the broadside of a rake several times over his flesh. His fingers were tingling from the limited circulation of blood and Maitimo could only imagine with impending dismay the burning pain that would encompass both hands when the flow of blood came freely once more. Whenever that would be. He twisted in the tight restraints at the thought, stopping with a wince at the sudden fiery twinge that shot up his left wrist. Oh. He sighed sullenly, belatedly remembering how he had ripped his wrist from the fastenings of his shield when they had pinned it down, how the tendons and muscles had pulled further than they were meant to as a result. But he hurt everywhere! Deep in his right shoulder, in several places along his back, and his whole right side felt as though he had been slammed into by a battering ram, nevermind the newly cracked rib. He tried to piece together how he had accrued so many hurts, what had caused them, but his head only pounded harder in response. It was all such a blur, but the last vestiges he recalled were the broken images of a fiendish face above him, blackness encroaching on his vision and unyielding fingers wrapped around his neck. Valar, it was no wonder his throat hurt. It had barely been all of –

Where was his armor?

The thought came abruptly and he snapped his eyes open, looking down at himself with a frown. He had been stripped of his armor. Every single piece of it. He knew he should have registered that immediately once awareness returned to his brain, but he only now just comprehended that he had been left in only a single layer of clothing: leggings and his gambeson, both streaked with filth and spotted heavily with blood, only it was so dark he could not precisely tell whether the hardened blood was of black or red hue. Probably red, and most certainly his own. It felt like it, at least. Even his belt and boots had been removed, leaving him barefoot and exposed to whatever merciless ground he might be made to walk on.

His heart began to beat wildly again as the reality of his situation made itself fully known to him. He did not know why the realization that he had been stripped of his armor and even most of his apparel made it real for him, but it did.

Great Manwë, what was he going to do? He looked around quickly, trying to see into the impenetrable shadows, where the noises of the Orcs increased and grew louder. But he did not have the slightest notion as to where the Orc-speaker had disappeared to. How many were there? How many surrounded him while he lay bound and stripped at the base of a rock?

He shook himself, forcibly directing his eyes back to his hands. No. He just needed to calm himself.

Think. Just think. He had to think. But oh Valar and damn it all to the Void, what was he going to do!

He closed his eyes again, absently pressing his hands against his chest. He could not breathe. He drew in short, quick gulps of air, but he could not breathe! As though someone had wrapped a fastening around his chest and tightened it like a vice. Calm yourself! He almost gave into the temptation to knock his head against the rock behind him, but he thankfully had enough wits left to know how unwise that would have been. He clenched his fists, focusing on the painful impressions of his nails into his palms. He forced himself to draw in a deep breath and to release it just as slowly. It did nothing and he did it again, and though it came out shuddering, he felt his galloping heart begin to slow. Just a little. But he no longer heard the pounding rushes of blood in his ears and it was enough to concentrate on taking several more steadying breaths. He drew his knees up to his chest, resting his bound wrists against his thighs.

Think. Just think.

He had been taken by the Orcs. By Moringotto. That much was clear. But what in the name of all that was blessed and holy had happened to result in that? How had he missed the reality of just how overwhelming a force Moringotto had sent? How had he been blinded to it until at last facing a mere 'delegation' of twenty? He had been so careful. So damningly adamant to turn tail and flee back across the steppes at the merest suggestion of culpability! A crippling shame rose up and this time he did bang his head against the rock, uncaring of the aggravation it caused his skull. How had he missed it?

And that was it, he realized. That was just it: He should not have missed it. Not when it was Orcs they were dealing with. These foes of the Enemy did not march absent of an evil presence, and it was a resonance so fey and so disturbingly dark that it was impossible to feel nothing when in their proximity. It had been one of the reasons why they had been capable of hunting down nearly every Orc after the assault of Moringotto when his hordes had fled in terror back across the mountains. And during their marching to the place appointed, all the senses of over sixty Elves had been overly high. And he himself knew what to sense, knew the telltale residue left in the air by those foul beasts of Moringotto. He should not have missed it, so it only stood to reason that there was an actual explanation as to why he had.

It had all fallen into chaos so quickly, but Maitimo forced himself to recall the details before that chaos had unfolded. The score of Orcs with the Orc-speaker had been visible, very visible, but even as he had been concluding that no Silmaril had been among them, a horde of Orcs maybe three hundred strong had been coming up on their rear. More had filtered in from the sides once the Noldor engaged in battle, but he would have had to be deaf and dumb and drunk on the most potent of ales to have missed such a force behind them. But all the Elves had. Why? He tapped the back of his head against the rock again. Come now, think. More details came to the forefront of his memory and Maitimo felt a sudden rush of disbelieving rage at one of them: The wind. He remembered observing earlier in the march how no cold wind blasting across the steppes ever came from the west or south, only from elsewhere, and it had been blowing fiercely from the northeast. And blowing without pause against the three score Noldor, neither sound nor scent of the horde of Orcs would have been able to reach them when being blown in the opposite direction. And the rolling thunder that had went on booming louder and longer the closer they approached the appointed place must have masked the march of their cadence. Orcs were not quiet. Maitimo quite doubted if they even knew how to be quiet. And the cadence of three hundred would have been a thunder on its own in the echoing emptiness of those plains. But due to the unrelenting thunder overhead, he had not thought twice of it.

But how had the Orcs bypassed their sweepers? Several Elves had been tasked to scout in the wake of their rearguard for the very exact purpose of spotting any foes encroaching on them from behind. Or had they been killed before the rest of them had even realized what was going on, shot down by Orc archers maybe? Whether that was the case or not, whether it was possible or not, the easiest explanation was the acknowledgement that the Orcs had equally benefited from the cover of darkness, the same advantage that he and the Noldor had planned to exploit. No torchlight had been among them and no starlight present to illuminate whatever weapons they bore. But still, that did not answer the question of how their acute sense had failed them entirely. Not sound or smell, but that actual presence on a more fëa-resonating level.

Maitimo frowned, glancing in the direction the Orc-speaker had disappeared to. Was it possible for one presence to overpower another? For the tangible energy exuded from a Maia to overtake what existed in a lesser being? Yes. Without question, yes. The Valar knew how often that had been proven in Valinor. But among the hordes of Moringotto? Maybe, maybe not. Yet why would it not? Moringotto was just as much a Vala as his Brethren were, so would it really be any different with his Maiar specifically? Maitimo remembered their first encounter with the Orc-speaker, how they had all been able to almost instantly recognize him as a Maia, despite all the deception he worked to weave around that simple truth. They had all immediately sensed that corona of raw darkness around him, not actual darkness but a true Darkness. That resonance had been present at the place appointed and powerfully so, but Maitimo had assumed it to come solely from the Orc-speaker. Had it not? And if so, had it truly been so potent and mighty as to encompass leagues of the steppes? Creature of lesser gen though he was, Maitimo still knew that was a stretch. The furrow in his brow deepened. Was it not? Or had it been the presence of the Valaraukar that had distorted any possible sensing of the Orcs behind them?

Maitimo's face cleared into an expression of alarm.

As subtly as he might but with far more trepidation than before, he cast his gaze around the clearing again. Where were the Valaraukar? There had been four of them. He peered everywhere, between the boulders and spiked rocks, trying to spot such monstrous forms, which should have stood out like nothing else in the dark. Those demons were wreathed in living flame and their dark fire stood out more prominently even than the stars during the night. Those things did not need to be looked for in order to be seen. He looked around again, the turning of his head more quick and rigid. Where had they gone? He could neither see nor sense them. But, he reflected darkly, he had not been able to see or sense them when ambushed by them either. Not until they had rent the ground wide and deep and popped up from the depths.

For that matter, how, by all the wonders of Arda, had they managed to burrow themselves into the earth in the first place? Were they burrowed underground again right now or had they really departed? Just what in the name of the Valar comprised this throng of Orcs to _deliver him functional?_ And just what by the stars did that even mean?

Maitimo bowed his head again into his hands, fingers pulling painfully at the disheveled strands as anxiety started to flood him. His heart went galloping again in the space of a breath and his hands once more took on a perceptible tremble despite their fast bindings. Oh Eru, he cried, a crippling sense of wretchedness sweeping over him. What was he going to do?

No. Just think. He had to keep thinking.

But this time he kept his eyes firmly shut. Valar, why could his hands not be free so that he could cover his ears for even a moment? Anything to block out the Orcs' rumbles and caterwauling. Just think!

He had been taken captive by the Orcs. By Moringotto. He was alive. He had no idea why, dreaded to guess, but he was alive. He opened his eyes, casting a prudent look around the vicinity again. He could see shapes shifting in the shadows, accompanied by their many suspicious snarls and jarring discourse. But there was no Orc in sight, though he had no idea if any were, in fact, watching him. The Orc-speaker might have just retreated to the veil of a boulder's shadow to observe him for all he knew. The Orc-speaker had warned him against running, quite emphatically, but Maitimo doubted that shifting where he sat would count as that. And so he moved, cautiously and at a speed that would impress a turtle. He attempted to do it quietly, but the shingles constantly shifted and slid against each other beneath him and he grimaced with each obnoxiously loud scrape. He shifted against the face of the rock, leaning painfully on his elbow, hands held awkwardly in front him as he leaned to peer around the boulder into the northeast.

He knew he would see Thangorodrim, but his eyes widened nonetheless at just how much more massive it appeared to his eye. From how much nearer he was to those three towering peaks, it was clear he was being taken to Moringotto's Dwelling. But Valar….Just how tall were those three mountains that they would look so mighty and large when they still had some distance to travel to even reach them? Was sixteen leagues truthfully the equidistant mark between the mountains and Thangorodrim, or had that been just another weave of the web?

He turned his eyes from Thangorodrim, looking around him once more with no little apprehension. Just where was he in this accursed land? How close were they really to whatever place housed Moringotto? How long had he been unconscious? How far had they carried him? All he knew with certainty was that he was closer to the Enemy's lair. The sky was blacker, the gales thicker, and the relentless bursts of wind harsher and the scent of burnt sediment on the air stronger, which still flummoxed him to no end. His eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, but even then his sight was essentially useless. The only reason he had seen Thangorodrim was because of the red illumination in the dark clouds around it and the shots of lightning. No starlight. No torchlight. Only the soft glow of Light he himself emitted. The number of boulders and ominously spiked rock formations had increased in both size and haphazardness. But there was absolutely nothing to tell him where he might be in relation to the sixteen league mark. How could he hope to escape from this captivity if he did not have even an inkling of where he would escape to?

Maitimo retreated back around the boulder to once again lean against it, resting his head on it more gently this time. He closed his eyes, concentrating on quelling the sharp desperation that was steadily rising in his chest. He had to find a way out of here. He had to escape, the admonitions of the Orc-speaker be damned. But….His face twisted in despair. What was he going to do? An undetermined number of Orcs encircled him, his wrists were bound so tightly that they tingled with long-set numbness and were bound in coarse rope that was impossible to unfasten, he was stripped and left in only the barest of apparel, suffered a head wound and a broken rib and a damaged wrist and Valar knew what else, had no weapons, no inkling of his location, no knowledge on where he could flee to, and did not have the beginnings of an idea on how he could make himself disappear from these beasts in the first place. The tendrils of despair wormed in further. What was he going to do?

Approaching footsteps sounded over the Orc-noise.

Maitimo's eyes snapped open and he forced himself to sit upright, suppressing a wince at the pain of it. It was the Orc-speaker, an atrocious roar booming from his barrel of a chest out to the surrounding jumble of boulders. Maitimo watched him in alarm with barely a movement of his body, his eyes wary. The command was met by the response of increased yips and growls from the many Orcs, their shapes shifting with more activity in the darkness. It was fairly easy for Maitimo to guess just what that meant.

The Orc-speaker confirmed it anyway, stopping at his feet and not even slipping on the unstable shingles as he looked down at Maitimo. "Time to march."

Maitimo stared at him, taking a deep breath and readying himself for the soreness of his throat. "For how long was I unconscious?" His voice was nearly unrecognizable, raspy and broken with the syllables that were barely decipherable, and his neck burned with an ache at working the abused flesh.

The Orc-speaker returned the stare, head tilting to the side and eyes narrowing only just as a suspicious look flitted across his grotesque features, as though gauging whether or not such information would be of any benefit. Or at least that was what Maitimo assumed he was thinking. And he went to pains to keep his expression utterly unreadable. It was but an innocent question any might feel driven to ask.

The Orc-speaker did not so much as blink. "Four days."

Maitimo gave no visible reaction. He resisted the temptation to twist around again and estimate the nearness of that towering Thangorodrim, instead attempting to calculate in his mind just how much further along they must have traveled. He wanted to ascertain a bearing on just how vast these lands were, where he might be right now in particular if the Orcs traveled on a linear path akin to the one the Noldor had traversed. But really, unless he knew the speed by which the Orcs marched, he could not determine just how much further he had been carried across these steppes. Certainly, he knew how fast Orcs could run based on when he and his kin had hunted them down. But after the ambush, he was truly starting to question everything he had presumed about the Enemy.

Maitimo made sure none of his thoughts entered his face as he focused his attention back on the Orc-speaker, who seemed to be waiting for a response.

Maitimo nodded.

The Orc-speaker scoffed. "Then rise, for you will be carried."

Maitimo stared at him, nonplussed and not a little aghast. "I can walk," he rasped out harshly, stare turning into a glare.

The Orc-speaker scoffed again. "So?"

Maitimo then understood and his eyes slid away from that dastardly fiend as he clenched his jaw, fury blossoming hotly in his chest. Being carried on the shoulder of an Orc while fully conscious and perfectly able to traverse the ground on his own would be humiliating. He could have scoffed himself. Why was he even surprised?

The Orcs in the darkness stirred and came forth, clearly readied to march again. And Maitimo gritted his teeth as one came forward at a charge and grabbed hold of the knot of rope binding his hands. He was hefted upward in one pull, arms nearly jerked from their sockets at the merciless handling. He wanted to kick, to land whatever blows he may, but he forced himself to be limp.

Maybe, just maybe if they thought him weak or subservient enough, they would not think he was planning to flee.


	11. To Thangorodrim

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 **Chapter 11:** **  
** **To Thangorodrim**

The next time he was tossed to the ground, Maitimo was close to snapping. Fury of the darkest kind was churning in his chest and he clenched his jaw so hard that it hurt. He immediately rolled onto his back, ignoring the shingles that dug into his shoulder blades. Orc laughter erupted around him at his graceless tumble and he felt a strong hand grip his thigh, claws tearing into the fabric and he jerked away, swinging his other leg up and around to slam his shin into the Orc's neck. The Orc let out a furious roar at him, stumbling away, and Maitimo rolled in the opposite direction to spring lithely to his feet, also ignoring what felt like shards of glass digging into the beds of his feet.

His hands were still bound, but he held them up anyway, willing to swing both fists if it meant hitting someone. Oh, he was ready to snap a neck. To draw blood even if it meant savagely doing it with his own fingernails! His breath exploded out of him in harsh pants as he glared at the snarling Orc with hatred so intense that he was shaking. The Orc bared his bestial teeth, a gargling sound in his throat as, without warning, he charged at Maitimo. But Maitimo met the charge, rushing forward in a flurry of movement and turning his shoulder in to ram it into the Orc's face. Maitimo was taller than every brute here and he moved with enough speed and power that he knew his shoulder would crush in the Orc's face beyond recognition. Good swiving riddance!

The Orc slid to a halting stop before they could collide, shuffling back.

Maitimo stopped as well at the last moment, nearly stumbling at the loss of momentum. But he regained his footing, readying his stance to react in whatever way he needed in response to whatever provocation. But the Orc did not lunge for him again. Maitimo glared. The Orc's face was contorted with savagery, his eyes lit with fury, but he still would not attack. Maitimo's eyes slightly narrowed, gaze flicking from one Orc to the next of those who surrounded him in every direction. His hands balled into white-knuckled fists, but none of them moved. He spun back and forth, hair whipping over his shoulders, feet shifting across the ground and his breathing coming all the faster, but not one Orc moved to attack. They shuffled and snarled and clenched their fists, but not one of them took another step forward.

Come on, he silently urged, muscles flexing so hard in his arms that they started to cramp. Come on!

The Orcs did not advance, no matter how much he goaded them to. He caught several listing forward in the same way they did when he first awoke and they had all collectively attempted to tackle him. But every time Maitimo turned to face them they halted. No one moved. Maitimo watched, slowly spinning. Many eternal moments passed and he felt like screaming as he waited, turning and turning to meet the first tackle head on. And he would meet it. Just let him prove it! But no tackle came. One by one, the Orcs backed away, still roaring away in their apparently endless anger, but they disappeared into the curtain of darkness to do whatever they did during one of the rest periods. The Orc he kicked in the neck was the last to leave and Maitimo tensed up at the gleam in his eye. Maybe the creature really was going to finally attack him. But the Orc drew back too, glaring at Maitimo the whole way.

He watched them go, his eyebrows drawing deeply together. What, they were seriously not going to attack him? Why by the Valar not? It was not as if the Orc-speaker was around to stop them this time and Maitimo would be damned if he let the Orcs think he was not ready to beat the life out of every single one of them! Come on! They clearly wanted to tear him apart limb from limb, so why not try? Just try. _Please_ go ahead and try it! Maitimo's lip faintly curled up as he looked away with a glower. Whatever. Orc logic was beyond his brain and, frankly, not worth the effort of any Elf to figure out. They could rot away in the darkness for all he cared. Just…whatever.

Maitimo let out a breath, deflating as he relaxed in his stance, the tension that had built up finally bleeding out. He almost shook from how tense he had been and felt unstable on his feet at the sudden loss of it. He stumbled back, shoulders hunched and eyes trained on where the Orc had disappeared. The sharp rocks digging into his bare feet made his steps tentative and when he finally neared a large stone that was tall enough to lean against, he lowered himself to the ground to hunker down next to it. His hands were still bound in front of him, so sitting was less elegant and more of a collapse when almost all the way down. But he sat there, leaning his head against the stone's surface with a sigh as his panting gradually stopped. He closed his eyes.

Damn it all. Just all of it.

There were still no means by which to measure the passage of Time, at least that Maitimo was aware of, but he still had enough inherent cognizance of it to know that a whole day had passed since he woke up from unconsciousness. And if his head was hurting before, his rib now made its agony clear at every possible moment, with every breath he drew and every heartbeat and every slight movement. The pain in his skull had subsided somewhat, much to his relief, though there was still a residual throbbing that would just not go away. But the jostling and careless treatment of his broken rib had made tears sting his eyes on more than one occasion. Yet Maitimo had suffered broken ribs before, so he knew how to tolerate it on some level. Knew what to expect. But that still did not stop the wound from intensifying the fury that was gradually accumulating in droves.

Maitimo shivered slightly at a harsh burst of wind, drawing his knees up to his chest and huddling against the rock to retain what warmth he could. He shivered a little harder. His fingers still twitched with the urge to do damage to that Orc, to any Orc, and he vaguely wondered if his heart had ever felt so black before. As if he really cared. He was again starting to appreciate why anger felt so good, why it felt even better the longer he could cling onto it. It was invigorating, so lively and it made his senses sharpen to an acute level. But now, left alone to his malediction and accursedly morbid thoughts, Maitimo had to fight the urge to break down and weep, something that was becoming more difficult with every passing hour. Brow puckering, he closed his eyes tighter, resting his cheek against the coarse rock.

All of the three score Noldor were dead.

He had no clue why that fact had not registered with him immediately when recollecting everything that had happened. How had it not? Especially at the time when he had been focusing exclusively on just how they had managed to be ambushed so efficaciously without anyone being the wiser? How had he wound up not even thinking twice of it? Just how? It was as though he had been disconnected from the reality of it all while trying to remember the details that had escaped him during the attack, but that was ridiculous. Even as he had been going over the skirmish's events, he still remembered seeing the Elves fall around him. Valar, he even vaguely began to recall the madness that had consumed him. But for some reason, the truth of the matter had not settled fully in his brain until this past day. Until he had become acutely aware that not one other Elf, even unconscious or maimed, not one was being hauled across these wastelands with him. He had not been actively looking at the start, but as league after league had passed under the Orcs' steadfast march, the thorough lack of Elven life around him had resonated so deeply within him that he was still shaken by the sharp realization that all the Elves with him had been slaughtered. Completely cut down and slaughtered.

The sounds of their screams now accompanied the afterimages of those Noldor falling. Cries abruptly cut short. Faces in the shadows of their helms contorted in pure panic. The shrill clashing of metal on metal, the noise of those clashes nearly overtaken by the Valaraukar's crackling fire. The pennant of the Star of Fëanáro clattering to the ground, its rich fabric soaked in blood. It all relentlessly swam in front of his eyes and the grief had faded over the course of the day, though only to the point where it was not quite so crippling.

But now he found his mind haunted with questions that would just not leave him alone. Whether any one of those Elves would have refused him in the first place if they had had the smallest inkling of what their end was going to be. Whether the Captains lamented being so steadfast in their trust of his judgment during that briefing in the fissure. Whether they would have still followed him even if they had not. Whether Sornion had regretted being so faithful in those final, life-ending moments. Sornion, his unwavering, obstinate and somewhat sarcastic companion that he had grown to have more respect for with every new month, and who had remained loyal to a fault even when bidden by his father to take up the command of the Nelyahossë. And who had clearly anticipated the possibility of being unable to retreat, and planning accordingly; Maitimo remembered how the Elves had encircled him at Sornion's quick command once the ambush was sprung. His Second had been on his flank and he had not seen him fall. He had been fighting right there next to him and he had not seen him fall! And Aráto….Valar, he had never spoken to him as he had intended to for over a week, and now he could not help but wonder if the Captain had died with an additional millstone of guilt around his neck. First for failing his father and now him, despite that it resulted in his own demise, and he even wondered if that had been a prolonged affair, wondered if all their deaths had been quick and painless as possible. But even from a logical standpoint he knew the improbableness of that, and that just made him want to curl into a ball even more.

It was also no help at all that he still had so many questions about the ambush itself that were unanswered and that now most certainly could never be answered. Or if they could, they would not be. Maitimo huffed, the side of his mouth twisting upward derisively. Not that obtaining any answers mattered. Oh no, not anymore. None of it would change or reverse the reality that they were all gone and the reality that it was all because of his bad judgment. Multiple bad judgments. They were dead, and these swiving Orcs had been gleeful of that fact the whole day. Tossing him around like a limp ragdoll to pass him from shoulder to shoulder for someone else to carry, aggravating his rib to the point of making him scream and exacerbating his head wound to the point where he would gladly take another blow to the head just to fall unconscious again. Valar, it was so mortifying, this being treated like a lumpy sack of grain. He could feel the flush of humiliation rise up his neck and into his cheeks just thinking about it. But he knew the Orc-speaker had done it for precisely that purpose.

Maitimo let out a sigh, one more grudging than weary. In retrospect, he knew he should be grateful that he was being carried instead of made to walk. His soles were far more calloused than the average Elf, but after observing the shingles and beds of grit flying beneath him for hours, he knew without a doubt that his bare feet would have been shredded apart into a bloodied mess within a matter of hours if he had been forced to run at the Orc's pace on this unforgiving ground.

He often wondered, had he been made to run, if the Orc-speaker would still have made him move on bloodied feet, which then led him to further wondering if the Orc-speaker ever considered actually making him walk in the first place. After all, there was no question so far that the Orc-speaker and the Orcs had no qualm in delivering pain by whatever means the Orc-speaker permitted them to, so it really stood to reason that ruining his feet would only please them more, right? Or maybe the Orc-speaker _had_ actually considered that, knew what would happen if he made Maitimo run, and maybe figured that the humiliation was worse than such physical misery? Or maybe the thought had bypassed the Orc-speaker completely? After all, Maitimo would have wound up being carried anyway once his feet were ruined to the point of uselessness. Or perhaps the Orc-speaker really had not thought of it because he could have just slowed their march to make Maitimo crawl on hands and knees the rest of the way instead, which would have been far more humiliating. Or maybe the Orc-speaker was not allowed to slow their return to Thangorodrim or wherever, and so Maitimo would really had to have been carried after his feet were ruined. Or maybe the Orc-speaker knew that too and instead determined that it was more humiliating to be carried from the beginning so that he would not feel any sense of gratefulness for his feet being granted a reprieve, even if it meant shame as the price. Or so he thought. Or was he spouting nonsense? Of course not, for if the motives of Orcs were anything, they were always logical!

He was becoming sick of his own company.

He shivered slightly again and locks of hair fell over his shoulder as he curled up further against the rock. He grabbed the end lengths of his hair and absently worked them between his fingers. He wove the strands around his knuckles, however stiffly thanks to the long-set numbness. His hands were still bound and he knew his wrists must be discolored with deep bruises by now, and though his fingers tingled they still had not lost all feeling just yet. Which meant he could still play with his hair a while longer. He found himself doing it whenever the Orcs rested, only after he had unbound his hair – he had managed earlier on to free it from its restraints, which had proven a bit problematic with the bindings. But he had quickly learned that the Orcs liked to grab hold of him by his hair to tell him where to move, so he had undone the plaits. Not that the Orcs did not simply grab hold of his unbound hair instead now, but he supposed it had been worth the attempt.

He sighed again, more softly this time, absentmindedly relaxing against the rock more. Though the angle he sat at was not necessarily good for his rib, it was such a blissful relief for his skull at resting his head completely on the stone. He worried the hair faster between his fingers.

There was only one thing anymore that he could say with absolute certainty, and that was that the Orc-speaker had lied to him about how long he had been unconscious.

He became more aware of his body throughout the day, especially as the discomfort and pain only seemed to increase with each hour, and he knew it was impossible for his body to have become thinner as it now was in only four days. His stomach curdled with the long-set knots of intense hunger and his throat was parched, mouth taking on that feeling of cotton. But though he logically knew that the Orc-speaker must have been force-feeding him some kind of nourishment while unconscious based on how healthy he still felt, somehow making him drink water at the very least, the obvious loss of weight to his frame spoke for itself. It had to have been at least a week, maybe longer. He had never been in a similar predicament before, at least with being without food or water for an extended length of time, but he had lived long enough to know his own body better than most people could claim to know their own.

It was not as though he was flustered by the fact that the Orc-speaker had lied (he was becoming rather used to the concept, really). Just now he wondered why he bothered to lie in the first place. Four days, one week, two weeks, it was not like any amount of time improved his circumstances, so why lie? All it did was suggest that the appointed place had not been the actual midpoint of the steppes. Maitimo hesitated.

Was that why?

Where was the Orc-speaker anyway? It was not the first time the question had popped up in his mind, but the Orc-speaker had disappeared halfway through the day. During all those hours and on whatever Orc shoulder he was being carried, the Orc-speaker had always been nearby in the immediate vicinity, never more than twenty paces away, which was just about the distance he could see in the dark without a qualm. The darkness was still heavy and, if anything, it had grown thicker. But halfway through the march the Orc-speaker had run ahead and disappeared from view. Not that Maitimo lamented his absence. His loathing for the Orc-speaker had become so intense that simply no longer seeing him was a reprieve on its own. Maitimo had no clue why he had gone on ahead and could not again care less, but he had not seen the Orc-speaker since.

And after an additional nine hours of travel, he was beginning to wish he did. He realized he had been correct in his guess the previous day that the Orc-speaker had been warding off the Orcs from attacking him. Because ever since he vanished from sight, the Orcs were quicker to manhandle him, rougher in maneuvering him, more eager to paw at him and certainly more happy to talk to him in whatever vile speech they shot his way. More than once Maitimo believed they were on the verge of finishing the attack they had started yesterday, and he further wondered if it was only the Orc-speaker's order that was stopping them from killing him outright. It was easy to see they wanted to, but they held back. Despite that he was glad to see him gone, Maitimo felt in more danger without the Orc-speaker there.

He was not certain he liked that.

It was why he had undone his hair. Either that or have the roots of the strands ripped from his scalp. His gambeson was becoming more worn and torn with every hour and was taking up the appearance of the dirt and filth of their surroundings instead of its material's silver hue. He was hardly surprised at its crumbling state considering the abuse it took. A gambeson was woven specifically to be donned under armor to protect the skin from the armor's pinching, but his own was not padded. Woven thick with cotton, yes, but it served the double purpose of being worn as a garment on its own. And so he was cautious to do no further damage to it than the Orcs had already done. The wind was abnormally, icily cold and with each new tear in the fabric, however small, he could feel the tendrils seeping in to ghost across his skin. This garment and his leggings were all he had left, but each time the Orcs laid hands on him it seemed as though the clothes gained another year's wearing down. These lands only continued to grow colder, and if he managed to abscond from this company of Orcs he would have nothing to provide warmth for his body except, literally, the clothes on his back.

Because he had not stopped trying to formulate a way to escape. Despite that he had fairly well ruined feigning submissiveness when his anger went through the ceiling, he was still cautious to at least not give them any reason to assume he was plotting, especially the Orc-speaker. These Orcs may act dumber than a drunk chicken on occasion, but he had no doubt that that Orc-clad Maia would be the first to notice his intentions and the first to respond, and most likely respond without the hesitation that the Orcs appeared to have when it came to assaulting him. Before disappearing, the Orc-speaker had watched him as though he were just waiting for the slightest excuse to carry out his threat. It was one reason Maitimo was glad he was gone, even if it meant the Orcs reveling in their freedom to mistreat him more than before. So he made sure to be compliant, moving where he was forced to move and dealing with the burn of shame when he was carried. It helped knowing that all this would only last as long as it took him to devise a way to flee. The sooner he escaped, the sooner having to suffer this degradation would come to an end. An abrupt, wonderful end.

Maitimo's lips pressed together in a tight line, tension building in his shoulders. That thought did not bring him as much comfort as before anymore because now, almost twenty hours later, the edges of desperation were starting to impede on his focus. Because, for the life of him, he could not think of any way to actually run from here. Not even one! Maitimo cracked his eyes open, looking around without turning his head. A whole manner of curses sprung to his lips. If he had possessed no knowledge on where he was in Endórë before, it was truer now than ever.

They had entered a mountain range. The lands on this side of the sixteen league mark were heavily littered with enormous boulders, spiked rock and beds of tumbled stones. But it had definitely evolved into an actual range of mountains, something that anyone with a morsel of intelligence could tell. He remembered the conversation with his father after crossing the Ehtelë Sirion Pass for the first time, how they had discussed the visible Thangorodrim and Fëanáro had made the idle comment about another vast expanse of mountains existing out there. He had obviously been correct and, equally as obvious, they were entering the base of said mountains now. These mountains were small in retrospect, but if these actually were the skirt of the true mountains further ahead, Maitimo could only imagine how vast they were going to soon become, especially with how much more massive Thangorodrim loomed in the distance now. If he could even call it a distance anymore. Those three peaks might as well be right around the next bend, right beyond the next ridge. He often found himself staring at Thangorodrim, straining his eyes to see more detail, but it was still too dark.

That red in the skyline Aráto had remarked on was still there, though, even more prominent than before. Staring at it only made the sense of cataclysm in his gut grow greater, because really, what in all of Arda was causing that? Could cause that? What even was it? It was as if the features of Endórë were changing the further east he traveled just for the sole purpose of mocking him for ever believing they could be predictable, because really, how dare he think that?

Because that was another thing, these features of Endórë, and Maitimo did not know if he was more shaken or baffled by them. The steppes were gone, having transitioned into what could truly be called a wasteland. There was no grass, no shrubbery, no moisture on the air. Just rock, rock, and more rock, with a lot of gravel and sharp shingles thrown in for good measure. He had never felt air so dry and dismal that it really was no wonder no birds flew out here. And he had never seen soil more inhabitable for greenery, if it could even be called soil. A flush of burgeoning shame swept over him again at remembering the steppes. Valar, how could he have ever called those grasslands a wasteland? They did not even deserve to be compared to where he was now! So what if the steppes had been flat and quite featureless, absolutely boring on a good day? At least there had still been life out on those plains! Even something so simple as grass. Here there was nothing.

But again, it was not as if any of it mattered. Grass, rock, a field of daisies, nothing changed the fact that Maitimo had completely lost all sense of direction out here. With no starlight and absolutely no chance of it, and with how the Orcs went off their straight road to take a convoluted path through the mountainous terrain, Maitimo did not even know which way was north anymore. The constant battering of wind from the east was now broken up by the massifs and towering ridges, though it still surrounded them in maelstrom blasts. Maitimo watched it stir up plumes of dust even now from where he sat.

So. He had no wind to determine his direction. The only thing he did have was Thangorodrim. Constant, reliable Thangorodrim that was always the perfect marker since the Noldor went on this mad expedition. Thangorodrim was northeastward. That was all he knew. But even that view was being broken up by the crests and apices of these little mountains. On a sudden turn he might lay sight on Thangorodrim and then regain some sense of direction, but being carried as he was, he found himself looking at the ground more often than not. Valar, if there was any proof that roaming into wholly uncharted and unknown lands was perilous, this was it.

Because if he did actually manage to escape from this captivity by some miracle, what then would he do? Where would he go? Those tinges of desperation were growing stronger because right now, his best hope was to just blindly flee and run as fast as his feet could carry him, and to keep running even when they became pulverized by the merciless ground. His only hope then would be to lose the Orcs among the mountains' ridges, but was he proving himself a fool by even believing that he could? He almost snorted in contempt. Of course he was. Maitimo was lost within an hour thanks to whatever pattern the Orcs marched in, but it was clear by their steady pace that the Orcs knew this landscape. Or at least the Orc-speaker knew it. So how much of a chance would he have to stay ahead of their pursuit, let alone actually lose them in the crags? Was there any chance? And even if there was, even if the Orcs and the Orc-speaker were as clueless of this place as he was, even if he were successful in losing them…what then?

He had no food. He had no water. He had no means to obtain either. And if these wastelands indicated anything with how they grew more barren with every new league eastward, it would be stupidity at its finest to hope he might happily come across any resource along the way. These very real doubts did not lessen his desperation to escape, but he had to admit that staring into an unknown outcome was daunting. But, Maitimo darkly conceded, being dragged bound and helpless to Moringotto's Dwelling had to be far worse than whatever risk escaping into a desolate wilderness imposed. And that was another thing – the rope tied around his wrists.

Maitimo looked down at his hands, hair now thoroughly bunched in between the knuckles. The skin of his wrists peeking out from the highest coil of rope was an abrasive red, torn and blistering from how often he pulled and twisted to break free. But the rope only bit further into his skin and some areas on his wrists were beginning to bleed. The slickness of the blood made turning his wrists in the coils of rope smoother but, by all the wonders of Arda, he could not rip his hands from this damned rope for anything! He had thought to maybe contort his body to try and attack the knot with his teeth, but the knot was on the inside of the bindings. How the Orc-speaker had managed that, he had no idea, and it only added annoyance on top of the many other dark sentiments he was feeling towards him. He also thought to cut the rope. There were many sharp shingles littering the ground and if he could position himself with a proper rock at just the right angle, maybe clasped between his knees, he could saw through the rope. A sharp blade would be more ideal, but these Orcs were not that stupid. So a rock would have to do. But even that oh so brilliant plan was thwarted by the fact that he was constantly watched during a rest period. And though the Orc-speaker had warned him against running, Maitimo still had no desire to know what would happen if he were caught freeing his hands. That, and that this unnaturally coarse and hardened rope was just so damn impossible to shear!

He just had to think. Just think!

Even if he could free his hands, he would have to wait until he concocted a further plan to actually escape into the mountains. Because once the hands were free, he had to run. But he was running out of time. Every hour brought him closer to Thangorodrim, or to wherever it was Moringotto dwelled. Never before had he felt time move so fast and so slow.

But even as all these wild and frantic thoughts ran through his head, he found himself thinking about Makalaurë more than anything.

Maitimo began running the pads of his fingers along his hair again, more gently this time. Valar, he did not want to think about Makalaurë, did not have the time to! But like a stubborn itch he kept robbing his focus, curse him, because Maitimo could only imagine – dreaded to imagine what his brother must think of him right now. Or would think. Four days or a week, however long he figured he must have been unconscious, his brothers must be looking for his coming by now. If they had arranged for sentries to remain in the fissure to await his return, that is. Otherwise it would be extra days before they would grow suspicious of his lack of absence if they had returned to the Grey Fields.

But whether now or a few days out, Maitimo could not stop envisioning over and over again just how his brother's face would crumble, all of their faces, when they deduced what happened. He knew they would search. All of them. And even if they did not, he knew others would, especially Vëantur and Yánadur. But Maitimo could not even bear to think about it. He could easily predict their reaction when coming upon the massacre. He could only fathom how he himself would react if he went out searching for a delegation that never returned. If it had been any one of his brothers instead of him, and he was suddenly almost overwhelmingly relieved that he had been vehement to do this alone. But he could not think what Makalaurë would do when he searched for the body of his only older brother and never found it. He actually did not know what Makalaurë would do, what any of his brothers would do, and that terrified him on a wholly different level. Because he _should_ know. He was their brother, curse it all! Yet he did not.

Valar, were any of his little brothers even ready for this? They had already lost their father and he was terrified that his own predicament would finally be one knife to the fëa too many. What would they do? What would any of them do once learning he had not actually died with the rest of them? They had not prepared for this possibility, had never imagined it. None of them had foreseen such an end! Death, yes. That risk they had all been willing to take on this venture, however much they prepared against it. But not for him to be solely taken captive. Great Manwë, why would they have thought that? It was ludicrous! But would his brothers come after him? By the timing alone and if he did not escape from these Orcs, he would most definitely arrive at the Enemy's Abode before any action could be taken. Maitimo wanted them to come. So badly. He wanted out of here! Valar, he wanted them to appear between the crags right now! But he seriously questioned what victory could be achieved, if any. Their lack of knowledge on how to defeat these Valaraukar was still the biggest chink in the Noldor's armor and until they deduced how to slay those demons of fire, they would always be at the bottom of the hill. Makalaurë knew that. His brothers knew that. He knew they did. But would they remember it, logic prevailing when all manner of it was being torn apart by every new disaster? And the problem of the Orc-speaker was an entirely new element to add into the pot.

Valar, what had he done?

He meant what he said by that mountain spring. Meant it! But Makalaurë was bound to recall the conversation – Maitimo would be surprised if he did not, but what would he think now? He had been sincere with what he said, curse it all! And equally sincere in his reasons for speaking it to Makalaurë, but Valar, he had never intended for his words to be some ill foretelling of what would happen. Would Makalaurë remember what he said but now believe that Maitimo had expected for this parley to have been folly all along? Even if he heeded his counsel by that spring, would Makalaurë now doubt the genuineness of his honesty in speaking it?

Maitimo closed his eyes again with a sigh, turning his face further in towards the rock. "Káno, forgive me."

The whispered words barely made it past his lips, immediately lost in the baying wind, but Maitimo could not be bothered to care at his lack of voice. His chest ached as his brother's gentle visage swam beneath closed eyelids, followed one after another by those of his siblings. He scoffed low in his throat. How would they look if they saw him huddled against a rock like a pathetic child hiding from the terrors nearby? What would they say if they knew he smelled the scent of ashes, as if from a recent fire? That he felt like he had been put under a grindstone? How would they act if subjected to the same efforts of the Orc-speaker to see their prisoner so demeaned? What would they do if faced with his own predicament?

Maitimo snorted in dark amusement at that, the chuckle sudden and brief and he was unsurprised at how hoarse the sound was. He knew what Tyelkormo would do, at least, and he wished he had some of his impetuous brother's nerve right now. He had already deduced several times over what each of them might do, but none of it would amount to anything unless some miraculous door to a way out of here opened up. Out of every scenario he had run through his head, even the most outrageous was just a passing fancy when he did not have even the slightest hint of what was before him or behind him or around him. Yes, he would first need to free his hands from this unyielding rope and yes, he would have to think of a way with whatever fickle luck he had left by which to break through this throng of Orcs that constantly encircled him. And yes, he would most likely have to beseech the mercy of Eru Himself not to be captured again. But he would also have to pray for the pity of Eru so that he would wise up in the ways of Endórë as intimately as the Moriquendi were in approximately one hour.

In fact….Maitimo opened his eyes, this time with purpose.

Casting a cautious glance around again, he uncurled from the ball he had retreated into, the movements slow and quiet – he could not afford to arouse suspicion now. The Orcs were swathed by the shadows, as they always were, but the noise level of their cackles and growls did not change, which Maitimo hoped indicated that he was going unnoticed because so far, whenever they focused on him, their noise level went up. Right now it was steady, so Maitimo took that as a good sign and moved further. Not rising from the ground, he shifted around the wide rock, elbows digging painfully into the shingles until he came to the other side. He lifted his eyes, quickly finding the massive silhouette of Thangorodrim. Even though clouded by a stirred dust, that ominous haze of red lining the underside of the clouds made those three peaks even more prominent.

So. That way was east. Or eastward. Northeast? No. East. It was east at the very least. He looked to the right with a twist of his neck. He could see absolutely nothing to the south. Whatever land was out there was shrouded in darkness and blocked by the gradually heightening mountains. He could not retrace his steps west; far too long a journey to ever hope to survive. Nothing good could lie in the north that was not a frore netherworld, and all the wonders of Eä could not make him willingly take a step further into the east. As of now, south was the most sensible direction to head, yet it was the one point of the compass he knew the least about. In essence, nothing. Would it be another thirty leagues of empty plains just as it had been coming from the Ehtelë Sirion Pass? Or more, Valar forbid? Or would it be nothing but more wastelands like what he was traveling now? Or would there be some semblance of life beyond a league or two of travel, be it a dying brook or plant?

His neck was burning with strain and he sighed shortly, clenching his jaw as he dropped his head. Even a break in the clouds on the horizon would be encouraging. He looked south once more, then to Thangorodrim and back again. His eyes narrowed, swiveling back to the three peaks. He began to crawl again, digging his elbows into the shingles to haul his body forward. If he could just–

He gasped, biting off a cry as a sheer edge of a stone pierced into the side of his elbow. He felt the hot trickle of blood fall down his skin but otherwise ignored it as he kept shuffling forward, his back towards the rock. He came to a stop a short distance later, grimacing as his hair caught beneath his body and pulled, but he kept his eyes angled up towards the skies. If he could just determine the pattern of the clouds, maybe he could garner which way was best to go. The direction of the high winds was sometimes a telltale sign of the land features they hailed from. But it was too dark. He could barely make out Thangorodrim, let alone the movement of the gales above it. And all he could see of the gales was that they were thick, black, and churning. If they moved in any course it was at the pace of a snail, the complete opposite of the wind that presently battered at him from every seeming direction. He pursed his lips in mild disgust. It was a real pity that not even the sky could go untouched by Moringotto.

"Nôr."

Maitimo jumped slightly at the unexpected sound and whipped around, startled eyes flying back and forth. An Orc had come in from the pervading darkness, several of them, but the one who spoke the one word had a look of glee aimed at him. The beast's axe was in hand, fist clenching and unclenching the haft. Maitimo realized that it was the same Orc he had kicked and that the fiend was huffing, the rumbling of the other Orcs nearly drowning out the harsh breaths. "Nôr," he grunted again. "De nôr!" And then he turned to his fellows, that black speech that felt like strikes to Maitimo's very fëa booming from his throat. The other Orcs echoed the shouts, louder and louder.

Maitimo stared at him, at all of them, blood draining from his face. He recognized those two simple Mithrimin words, knew that the Orc was saying something about him and running in the same sentence. Which was not good no matter which way he turned it. On the one hand, Yánadur had been correct in his supposition that if the Orcs could converse at all it would be in the speech of the Moriquendi, horrendously fragmented on their tongues. On the other hand….Maitimo shook his head frantically, his heart crawling up his throat. "No," he forced out. He knew that much in Mithrimin. "I no run!"

The Orc laughed uproariously. He approached, hefting the axe higher, and Maitimo shifted in a frenzy to spring to his feet again. But before he could do more than just sit up at a painful angle, a loud roar came from his right and Maitimo snapped his head around. His eyes widened in alarm. The Orcs looked in the same direction, the axe-bearer stumbling to a halt and Maitimo's breath caught in his throat. Oh Valar, no. Now what?

Seemingly from nowhere the Orc-speaker appeared out from the assembly of Orcs, marching agitatedly not towards Maitimo, to his slight wonder, but towards that one wielding the axe. He did not even glance at Maitimo. Maitimo froze where he leaned on an elbow, watching them go back and forth with a wide-eyed stare. He could not even begin to imagine what they were saying, or rather shouting like untamed beasts. Shout and roar and yap. It went on and on, the Orc-speaker the loudest of them all, and Maitimo had absolutely no idea what to do. Just what could he do? More Orcs were invading the space, probably summoned by the racket, and his heart pounded harder against his ribs as every viable pathway of the scrawl of mountain paths were closed off, one by one. He cringed as the Orcish speech increased, the assault on his ears literally making them ache. He reached up to plug them, straining against the rope. It was a wonder they were not yet bleeding!

Before he could even think of how to react, the Orc-speaker suddenly spun around on his heel, yellow eyes alighting on him. He barked one more time at the Orc with the axe and said Orc retreated from him, hateful displeasure plain on his face.

Faced now with the Orc-speaker, Maitimo switched to Quenya. "I do not care about the witless minds of your jackals," he nearly shouted, the anger that boiled just beneath the surface making his voice shake. "You know I am not running!"

The Orc-speaker did not remove his eyes from Maitimo as he reached behind him and snatched the war-axe from the Orc's hand, reversing the haft so that the broad blade was facing up and the poll of the axe down. "Yes, just as I know well that you are _thinking_ about it." He cocked his head, a derisive lilt to his voice. "Heeded you not my words? I told you plainly: you Elves are predictable. None but one of a maimed mind would content himself to be borne to the core of Elven bane. And you, Your Majesty, are proven the fool if you believe me to be taken by this pitiful compliance." He came closer, almost at a leisurely pace. "Tell me. When did you plan to flee?"

Maitimo glared at him, the anger rising until he shook with it, and he caught several Orcs behind the Orc-speaker stepping back at whatever they saw in his face.

But the Orc-speaker just smiled a mocking smile. "Exactly." He barked a sudden order to the surrounding Orcs and his eyes remained steadily on Maitimo as several Orcs began to shuffle and move, their whines and cackles rising to a fevered pitch.

A wave of dread overcame Maitimo and survival instinct flared to life immediately as several Orcs lunged at him, this time with permission. Bound as he was, he fought with viciousness so fierce and desperate that the Orcs were warded off at first. But they increased their efforts and though he fought them off by whatever measures he could, whether kicking or slamming his elbows or both fists or the back of his head, there were too many of them. Too many hands that grabbed hold of his arms to pin them at his sides and grabbed fistfuls of hair to yank his head back and immobilize him. Too many that crushed him with their weight until his desperate movements were rendered useless. A pair of arms – or two of them, he could not tell – wrapped around him and squeezed with a vice-like grip, expelling the air from his lungs and making his rib feel like it was breaking all over again. He felt his legs being grabbed, several hands around his left ankle as it was stretched flat to the ground and held there immovable.

Maitimo's breath came in panicked gasps, his heart fluttering like a caged bird. He gritted his teeth and continued to struggle against their unyielding holds as the Orc-speaker closed the last few steps between them. Head tilted back at the painful angle it was, he could only see him marginally, but he saw him. Saw him finally move his sallow eyes from Maitimo's own gaze to his foot. Saw him heft the axe in its reversed grip.

Maitimo tensed, but when the poll of the axe-head came crashing against his instep, his vision flashed white, mouth opening as a scream was ripped from his throat.


	12. Angamando

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 **Chapter 12:  
Angamando**

There were no more rest periods. But there was not much more distance to go either. And they were now so far into these mountains that the prospect of escaping from them was becoming more laughable than solvable. He was lost. He was blind. And in all honesty, Maitimo's resolve to be vigilant and calculating about his situation was quickly wilting away.

Throughout another day's uninterrupted travel, Maitimo had been nearly delirious with pain, a pain that only grew more excruciating with each jolt of his body. Because he was once again carried by the Orcs, divided among them by the hour, and it now felt like every part of his body was scorched with fire at the special treatment of his captures, from the head to the rib to the foot. Valar, his foot! He knew he should be grateful that the Orc-speaker had not just hewn the limb with the axe, but curse him to the Void! He had screamed, but the pain had been so intense that any preservation of dignity could not have mattered less. Even now, another sixteen hours later, the memory was still fresh of feeling the ligaments around his ankle caving under the blow of the axe's poll and the small bones bruising. At least he assumed they were not broken. They felt like it, but he never had the opportunity to inspect his ankle. Carried as he was, he could only ever feel it pulse and ache, hour after hour without reprieve. His rib and head were nearly forgotten in face of it until the jolting of the Orcs' cadence reminded him that they existed and were just as fresh in their agony too.

But when the delirium had faded and he regained some manner of cognitive function, he had just enough wits remaining to belatedly realize that the Orcs, or more so the Orc-speaker was being careful not to do any permanent damage. Even though the head wound had toed the line well enough. But his rib had been fractured. Fractured, not cleanly broken. And now the ligaments and tendons around his ankle had been impaired, but not its small bones, or so he figured. His left wrist had been his own doing and the damage to his neck by the suffocation had undoubtedly been a last resort after so many Orcs continued to fail to subdue him and fall beneath his sword. But nothing permanent. Maybe they were saving it all for the pleasure of Moringotto, he thought bitterly.

And that was the crux of it.

Because now, Maitimo was shaking. Shaking hard. He thought he had been mortified before, but now sheer terror ate at him and made him tremble so fiercely that he could not even hold a pebble between his fingers. He did not know why he was so disconnected from so many realities like he had been with those wasted deaths of the Noldor, as though he were inspecting the severity of a hearth's fire through a window pane instead of feeling its heat. But now, with Thangorodrim so close that not even the surrounding mountains could disrupt the sight of it, the reality of his situation was becoming more than just some intellectual understanding.

It was becoming very real, very fast.

He was being taken to Moringotto. And that simple fact terrified him. For a brief moment he felt a smidgen of disgust at how transparent he knew he must be, especially under the relentless scrutiny of the Orc-speaker. But image after image flashed through his mind of what had to be awaiting him, and completely not knowing what to imagine might even be in store for him only made it worse. Suddenly, any obsession for what the Orc-speaker must think of him, what the Orcs must think of him, of how abased and derisory and so pitifully helpless he must look tied up…it all became very small. Moringotto was waiting, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about the fact that he was being delivered to him like a merchant's goods. Oh Valar, what was he going to do? _What was he going to do!_ All of this horde be damned, why had he not run when he could! Damn the Orcs who would have given chase. Damn the risk of dying in the unknown land of the south. He should have run! Bound, bloodied, limping, starving, parched, destitute, gasping from a cracked rib, vision reeling from a wounded head, at least he would have been running! And now, even if he broke for it with all the Orcs' attention focused on him, his all but broken ankle ruined any chance of even hobbling along at a brisk walk, let alone running. The Orc-speaker might as well have just hacked his foot off for all the use it now gave him!

And that was another thing. The Orc-speaker. Valar, that swiving fiend now never left his sight, always nearby, always but a vile growl of an Orc away. Maitimo closed his eyes, his throat closing up as despair ate away at what little composure he had left. Damn it all, what was he going to do?

So lost in the misery of it all, he was completely taken by surprise when he was tossed to the ground. Again.

Maitimo grunted as the air was expelled from his lungs in a huff (again) and he grimaced as his rib flared to life. But with hands still bound in front of him, he could only embrace what he could of the area with his elbows. When awareness came back he realized that he could hear a lot more noise than the ceaseless racket of Orc. A lot more. He heard a deep, thunderous rumble and, of all things, what sounded like a bubbling, churning of liquid. Water? A fierce hope suddenly blossomed in his chest. But before the thought could complete itself, something soft and gentle touched his cheek. His eyes snapped open. He rolled on his side, head whipping back and forth as he looked around, trying to see what touched him, to see beyond the moving Orcs. Something was falling from the sky, something powdery and soft, almost delicate in its slow decent.

 _Snow?_ He gaped openly, incredulous. It fell all around him, coating his hands and blasting away under the bursts of hot wind. But he frowned as he studied the fine substance.

No, not snow. It could not be. The flakes' hues were variations of grey, not white, and he was quite aware that snow mixing with shimmering hot air was not exactly possible.

Maitimo blinked a few times before his eyes widened in mild surprise. He could see. He could actually, finally see. It was no longer dark. Or not as dark, he revised. A crimson glow emerged from the ground just a short distance away and, craning his neck, he stared aghast at the ravine in the ground in horrified wonder. It was a river.

But not of water. Morbid curiosity made him list forward more to peer over the sharp ledge of the rocky bank and his mouth dropped open as he froze. Liquid fire? What in the name of all that was blessed was this rent in the earth? The river was flowing, churning thickly as it went like sea waves trying to break the surface. The liquid itself sent Maitimo afterimages of his father at the forge, creating delicate glass from sand, melting the sand in the sweltering kiln and lifting it from the molten pool with a steel rod, yellow and orange liquid slowly dribbling from the mass compiled on the butt. That was what it reminded him of, but this molten fire was a deep red with shots of yellow breaking through, some dark, crusty sediment floating on top, and the warm hues reminded him of the Valaraukar. He glanced up at the sudden thought, briefly expecting that one of those flaming demons would now be nearby after having not seen them once since awaking.

But when he looked up, Maitimo found himself inadvertently gawking at the impressive sight of Thangorodrim. The surrounding mountains had only increased in height and density, but they now might as well have been a flat plain when measured next to those threefold peaks. They must have been over two leagues tall. Maitimo's eyes slowly rose, traveling up the impossible length of those equidistant mountains, and at their crown his eyes widened even further. They were smoking. They were actually smoking, great billows of thick, black fumes puffing in a slow climb up to the tempest above. Valar, this whole time his people had thought these three peaks simply towered so high as to pierce into low-riding gales, but they were belching gales themselves!

Putting one and one together, he then realized that the flakes falling from the sky were not snow, but ash. His face crumbled at the revelation. Those three smoking peaks were snowing ash! He did not know why it was such a desolate realization, but feeling the hot air on his face and smelling the putrid reek on the wind, he stared at Thangorodrim and only saw the lofty heights of the towers. Saw the sheer walls that craggily sloped down to a thunderous base. Saw the curving fence of great mountains stretching out from either side east and west.

Maitimo suddenly recalled the look on his father's face before Fëanáro had thrice cursed Moringotto and then breathed his last. He had been looking at Thangorodrim, and Maitimo now questioned just what it was his father had seen. The memory came unbidden of Fëanáro's casual suggestion that these three towers were a mockery of Manwë's mountain, how Aráto had echoed it, and right now Maitimo believed it more than ever. Thangorodrim was tall, and though Oiolossë was taller, Oiolossë numbered one while Thangorodrim numbered three. Oiolossë, garbed in a snow of holy white while wreathed with a celestial purity and Thangorodrim, black with slag and wreathed in clouds of ash. Oiolossë, a tower of awesome majesty and Thangorodrim, threefold towers of dismal oppression. Oiolossë, mighty and unconquerable and Thangorodrim, mighty and unconquerable.

Maitimo slowly shook his head, eyebrows puckering. Oh brothers _,_ he thought desperately, oh damn this all, what have I done? Valar, Káno, think with your head and not your heart!

The land stretching out behind and in front of Thangorodrim only reinforced the prayer. Maitimo was rendered speechless by how vast the mountains were that stretched behind the three peaks. The only range of mountains he could recall being mightier in size were the Pelóri. Valar, did Moringotto have a replication for every wonder of the West in Endórë? The lesser mountains encircling the base of Thangorodrim had opened into a sparse plain and, just like the one in front of his face, there were several rivers of fire snaking across from the towers like a watershed. He could tell because the crimson glow of the molten substance lit the way across the plains, illuminating the filth and desolation that visibly spread southward for many leagues. And the glow of fire also lit the base of Thangorodrim and the small field there, the glow illuminating all the smoke and flurries of ash unto what was clearly a battlement at the front of the central tower. A battlement….

 _Boom!_

Maitimo jerked hard, heart skipping a beat as his eyes flew to the sky. They widened in disbelief as he beheld the east-tower of Thangorodrim belching forth fire. Or not fire. It was spurting a liquid-like fire, much like the kind that ran in the river in front of him, and the substance spouted into the sky like a fountain, only to fall down along the black slope in fiery rivulets. Almost as if in response to that east-peak, two more mountaintops behind Thangorodrim exploded in the same manner with thunderous booms, spurting fire and lighting up the horizon.

Maitimo stared at those peaks still spouting in gurgling spurts, aghast and incredulous and not a little terrified. Just _what…?_

Someone snorted.

Maitimo whipped around, leaning on one elbow and growing still as he found himself again faced with the Orc-speaker, who stood only a few paces away. His arms were crossed, the dark vambraces and breastplate dancing with reflections of the river's orange fire, and he looked down at Maitimo with more than a little derision and what looked like a small smile playing at his mouth. The Orc-speaker's eyes traveled from Maitimo to the exploding peak of Thangorodrim and back. He snorted again. "Welcome to Angamando."

Maitimo did not respond, a shiver running down his spine at the name he gave this place. Dread sprouted as its meaning sunk in. _Angamando_ ….

He must have blanched because the Orc-speaker suddenly cackled at him. He unfolded his arms and moved to step away. "Across the river we must bear you without dropping you in, so wait here awhile until the bridge across the sarsens is made ready. And take joy in this respite, for the next will not be until you are kneeling in the Nethermost Hall at my Lord Melkor's feet."

Maitimo watched him, speechless and suddenly weary as the Orc-speaker turned and began relaying orders in his familiar bark. The Orc-host hastened to do whatever they were being told to do. Maitimo could swear there was an extra spring in their step, probably from returning to the only place they could call a home. But Maitimo just stared at the Orc-speaker's back, shaking his head as hot air blew strands of hair in his eyes.

"Who are you?" He hated the hopeless lilt to his voice but pressed on anyway. "Who? How is it you speak the tongue of my people when you never dwelt with my kin beneath the Trees?"

The Orc-speaker cut off his shouts, spinning back around and looking down to stare at him. He said nothing, just stared. Maitimo maintained the stare, paying no mind as the air between them shimmered with the scalding heat and the bursts of hot wind burned his skin, the only illumination coming from the river beside them. The Orc-speaker's eyes narrowed, as if he were debating whether or not to speak. Or so Maitimo thought. It was difficult to read Orc faces. They all looked the same.

The Orc-speaker just huffed once more, seeming to be amused by something, and Maitimo thought he was going to ignore the question completely and just walk away. But after another moment the Orc-speaker turned to him more fully, cocking his head with a look of indulgence. "Who am I?" he finally grunted. He stepped closer, unhurried and looking almost too relaxed. "Well, it is only courteous to enlighten the ignorant. I am one of a higher Theme than you. I am one who had naught of cowardice in challenging your Valar and their doctrine. One who they could not gaol during their siege of my Master's first Dwelling. One who nurtured you Quendi while your Valar frolicked in their hills and mansions. One who escaped into the World when bidden and returned from my sleep in the World when summoned to redelve this fortress that now makes you tremble like a child." He stopped a pace away, bending down to bring his face closer to Maitimo's own. He smiled, but it was far more dangerous than humored and there was actual anger in his eyes. "And I am one who does not need to be among you lofty Children to know the lofty sounds of your lofty tongue, for no infinite Being is caged by the finite mind of an _Incarnate_." He spat the word as though it were repulsive and reached out without warning, too fast for Maitimo to even know how he should react, and he pressed the pads of his fingers to Maitimo's forehead, giving a slight shove.

But not of his head. Before the Orc-speaker even withdrew his fingers, a vision invaded Maitimo's sight and his mind was swamped relentlessly with image after image. He could not stop a ragged scream as his mind felt like it was being scrubbed with shards of glass. Fire. Emptiness. Explosions of power, faces and bodies that appeared and disappeared too quickly. Clashings of white and silver. Lightning. None of the images tumbling over each other made sense. None even coalesced into a single scene, not when what he was seeing were colors and harsh movements in the dark hues. Valleys upheaving, mountains falling, plains renting, stars bursting….On and on it went. None of it made even the smallest sense, but Maitimo could not cast the vision away as much as he tried to.

But suddenly he saw something, and his breath caught as he froze in genuine surprise. It was brief, coming and going faster than a heartbeat, but he saw it. In all the chaos unfolding in this vision, there was a spike of light, a shot of incandescence that glimmered behind all the scenes and images, various hues dancing along it. And to his astonishment, Maitimo actually recognized it. Recognized the pattern that all the hues of the color prism lined up in, recognized their unique weave. Oromë, he realized with wonder. So often had he accompanied Tyelkormo in his youth to Oromë's Halls that the recognition clicked into place immediately. That was Oromë!

Before the significance of that revelation could compute, the vision dispersed. His sight cleared and Maitimo blinked several times, gasping for air. He had fallen to the ground again and now lay on his back, but the sharp rocks digging into his skin helped him regain focus more quickly. And as his eyes focused, he saw that the Orc-speaker was still standing above him, still cocking his head to the side, still a look of indulgence on his face as a haughty smile played at his mouth.

"See?" he went on. "Finite mind that you have, you can little process the full depth of a Being greater than you. Who am I, you ask? I am my lord's fervent servant." He bent down low again, the brief smile disappearing. "Soon you will come to learn how a name is nothing." He looked to his right, to where Maitimo could now see the Orcs were quite busy, and turned back, the smile resurfacing but devoid of any humor. "Ready to cross, O mighty Noldo?"

The Orc-speaker spun back around without waiting for an answer and strutted to where the Orcs had gathered at a specific point on the bank of the river. Or whatever this canal of fire-like liquid was called. But the ravine was over twenty paces wide and further down from where Maitimo was laying, the hot substance was crashing against pilasters of igneous rock that jutted up across the river without any pattern, all varying in heights and widths. The fiery liquid slushed against their walls, the black crust on top breaking apart to reveal an even brighter liquid of yellow beneath. But the Orcs were crawling over the sarsens, several staying put and gradually forming a pathway across the scattered rocks to the other side.

But Maitimo's eyes swiveled back to the retreating figure of the Orc-speaker of their own accord. All he could do was stare as his mind positively spun with the sudden revelation. Did the Orc-speaker know that he had gleaned who his previous Lord might have been? Maitimo had the strong feeling he had not because, by the Orc-speaker's wording alone, his finite mind was apparently too finite in ability to comprehend whatever infinite vision he had forced on him. But Maitimo was fully aware that if he had been a Moriquendë of these Valar-less Lands, or maybe even a lowly Amaneldë who was completely unfamiliar with the Valar and their unique presences, he would not have recognized that streak of light with all its revolving hues shooting through it at all. It was only because he knew Oromë intimately enough that he did. He was tempted to enquire further, to mention the name of Oromë if only to see what response it might provoke, but absolutely nothing made him want to indulge his curiosity right now, nothing at all. Utter disgust washed over him at how afraid he was, at how easily he shrunk away from the thought of testing the Orc-speaker's tolerance with him. But that terror was only growing all over again the longer he lay there and he felt himself beginning to shake once more. In part –

His foot!

The thought came abruptly and he twisted himself up on his elbow again, wincing with clenched teeth when his ribcage moved accordingly. With as little movement as possible he dragged his left leg up over the ground, making sure to not let his ankle scrape against the beds of rock, and let it fall when he could see it within the river's dim light. He grimaced at the sight of it. Swollen, deep bruising of blues and blacks and yellows, the discoloration traveling up his shin and all the way down to his toes, wrapping around to nearly touch his heel cord. And true enough, it felt like it looked.

Maitimo gave a slight, dismal shake of his head as he stared at it. This was bad. This was so bad. With a brief flash of mettle, or maybe stupidity, he attempted to bend it and almost cried out at the lancing pain that instantly shot through his foot and up his leg. He grabbed his thigh with both hands, desperate to grab something, and his fingers clamped down as he waited for the pain to subside. Only after a long while did it finally start to ease.

He sighed shakily, collapsing back to the ground and shutting his eyes. His heart was pounding.

Aulë help him, what was he going to do?

O = O = O

That respite by the riverside was the last occasion the Orc-speaker or any of the Orcs addressed him, at least directly. The following hour consisted of the painstaking and, to Maitimo, heart-palpitating endeavor of crossing this hell-wrought river. It was the first time during this captivity that he was actually relieved to be treated like a sack of grain. He had crossed mountains, river rapids, scaled cliffs, joined his audacious cousin in a whole manner of wild feats, helped raise six brothers, but nothing could have prepared him for the sight of that liquescent fire running and churning beneath him, the air so hot that it felt like he was suspended above a chiliad of candles.

Crossing it should have been impossible, but it was obvious the Orcs had traversed this junction before because they leapt and climbed over the columns of rock in a haphazard but remembered pattern to the other side that Maitimo probably never would have figured out on his own. Up and down, back and forth, but the chasm was eventually bridged. And at another order from the Orc-speaker, he was hauled up from the ground and carried across. The crests of the rock columns were so narrow that he could not have stood on them along with the Orcs, even had his one foot not been lame. But even so, he was not entirely sanguine with the fact that it would take only one faulty hold of his body or a push for him to be dropped into the fiery river below. Images invaded his mind as to just what would happen if he did, what he would feel, and so he wound up spending the entire crossing taut as a bowstring, for once very sincere in his compliance to maneuver however the Orcs demanded he move, to just do whatever they said.

Though there was unquestionably a watershed of these rivers as far as Maitimo could see, the remainder of their march was fairly straightforward and they did not end up crossing another. At most, it was occasionally overstepping hot veins of that bright liquid that shot across the drear dale.

Except now he was walking. Walking on his own one and a half feet. Why the Orc-speaker made him walk now he had not the slightest idea and he was frankly tired of trying to dissect the Maia's motives when it never amounted to anything. Particularly when walking proved to be an exercise in futility since he could barely hobble along at a lumbering pace, a crippling pain shooting up his left leg with every small step. Valar, even the most minimal amount of weight on his left foot made him want to cry out! But he was moving so slowly that the Orcs eventually just grabbed him by both arms and hauled him across the land, wrenching him upward whenever he stumbled, which was more often than not with every step. His feet ended up being only a means to prevent himself from completely tripping and falling.

At least he could see well enough into the distance, a far cry from before. The whole expanse of land was illuminated from the winding fiery rivers and the black chasms that opened beside the road. But in this case Maitimo almost preferred blindness because now it was clear that their end destination was not far away at all. He could see it from here and dread overcame him so powerfully that it siphoned off his breathing.

There was a great gate at the foot of Thangorodrim's central tower, arching wide with a gapingly dark abyss. Right now it was open, yawning like a grinning portal and there was no light whatsoever within it. The cliffs surrounding the Gate might as well have been embattled walls for how they looked and Maitimo realized it was the very battlement he had seen from the fire-river, only this time he saw it up close. It, and the thousand feet of sheer precipice that was rearing above it. Monstrous shapes were moving on top of the wall – Maitimo could just see them peaking over the ramparts as they strolled along the wall-walk. And several of those shapes – Orcs, he recognized – many of them stopped to lean over the parapets, and he could hear their guttural shouting from here as they looked down on them. Not a few canines were up there too, looking more like wolves than hounds, yet still somehow so much more vicious and savage than a wolf. And huge. They reared up on their hind legs to peer over the blackened ramparts, their fangs visible despite how dark it was. The Gate looked so minuscule in size when measured against Thangorodrim, but as Maitimo was forced closer and closer he began to deduce that its perception was just as deceptive as Thangorodrim's was in those leagues of grasslands because this entrance to so-called Angamando was massive. Maitimo felt like he was being swallowed up as its impenetrable walls loomed over him, carved into the wall of the mountain.

His throat tightened up as he stared. Sweet Yavanna. Like the mansions of the Valar, like Taniquetil, like the thrones of the Máhanaxar, this battlement was a creation that was impossible for Incarnate hands to make, not when it carried that notable signature of a higher make. It was so obvious that Maitimo only had to look at it to know it.

But when finally within a furlong of the Gate, he faltered. More than faltered. He outright stumbled and came to a staggering halt on one foot when his fëa was randomly assaulted with a battering he had never faced before, that his body had never faced. Valar, what was that? Something was in front of the Great Gate, was _pulsing_ from it. He could not see anything, but he felt it! It was as though he had crossed some invisible wall that now pulsated outwards again and again, and it was very reminiscent of that Darkness the Orc-speaker radiated. Only much worse. So, so much worse, even than all those Valaraukar.

 _What was that!_

Maitimo gave a short, desperate shake of his head, trying to twist out of the grips on his arms. Just no! Not there! This was no darkness that came from a lack of light, but actual Darkness and it only increased the chaotic lawlessness that was trying to suffocate his fëa. Valar, there was such disharmony, such a _raw_ disorder, as if everything unmeant for the Order of Arda was made manifest here and now in _whatever_ it was that pulsated from the gaping entrance. Yes, it was the same undercurrent sensed by all the Noldor in the Orc-speaker, in the Valaraukar. He knew it was. But this was still different, still so unfathomably worse!

It was more impactful than the poll of the axe had been on his foot.

Maitimo fought against the Orcs, fought and struggled as hard as could, ignoring how his wounds flared to life in result. Damn his cowardice, he should have done so in the beginning! Just no! After much grappling and yanking and a solid fist or three to an Orc's face, he managed to dislodge the Orcs from his arms and spun on his one good foot to run. Just run, damn it all!

But the Orc-speaker was there impossibly fast, blocking his path. Unlike the Orcs, he did not seem angry, not even irritated. But despite his calm composure, he still collided against Maitimo with all of his weight and grabbed a fistful of his hair, separating more than a few from his scalp. Maitimo fought against the hold, but his bad foot made it impossible to find any leverage, and the Orc-speaker forced him headlong into the entrance's gaping mouth and into the Dwelling of their Master.

He was plunged into utter blackness.

Maitimo's breathing hiked up in speed and his eyes grew wide, but he could see nothing. Not a thing. Not even those slight shifts in the shadows he glimpsed during the trek here. He only heard the noise and clamor of the Orcs surrounding him, their feet pounding on the stone ground. But the Orc-speaker, who had yet to release his hair, barked another order in that Orc-speech. He heard the distinct sound of flint and steel, of sparks coming to life. Only a couple moments later, a torch was flaming brightly a few paces away.

He blinked painfully several times, but his eyes had no time to adjust because the Orcs were suddenly hauling him along even more quickly, as if the fresh light meant that he now had no excuse to slow down or something. But Maitimo's gaze kept flicking back to the blazing torch and he grew more baffled with every new step. Baffled as to why they bothered lighting a torch at all when they had never done so before. It could only be for his benefit, especially when he considered the outstanding evidence there had been throughout this whole dismally dark journey that Orcs could see perfectly without a smidgen of light. So the torch could only be for him, not to mention that it was also carried in his proximity instead of at the van of the Orc-host, but why?

Maitimo's postulations were quickly distracted as, when his eyes fully adjusted, he began to truly see his surroundings in what little the light revealed. And he found himself whipping his head back and forth, despite the Orc-speaker's brutal grip on his hair, taking in as much detail as he could of what was clearly a tunnel. No, a Tunnel, and a great one. Like the battlement of the Great Gate, the Tunnel's flawless excavation was most definitely an impossible feat for hands of even the Noldor's caliber. Higher make. Again. But it was eerily empty of any Orc or other creature, though if that was significant or not Maitimo had no clue. Or maybe there were beasts inhabiting the Tunnel further along. He could only see as far as the torchlight, but what he could see was clear enough. Of the same coarse slag of Thangorodrim, the Tunnel's arching walls soared upward to a height loftier than the Two Trees had even towered, and its flat road stretched at least fifty paces wide. The torchlight danced on the black walls, the shadows of the Orc-host looming overhead.

The Tunnel seemed to have no end. And even the smallest noise of the Orcs, every scrape of their iron-shod feet and snort and clang of armor, all of it was magnified in the reverberating emptiness.

Maitimo's body was so taut with tension that he was shaking. He tried to resist every step, now panting from the exhaustion of it, but the several grips on his arms and the fist in his hair kept him moving forward. But strangely enough, the galloping of his heart and frantic racing of his mind began to slow and calm as they kept walking. Just kept walking. The continuous sight of the same walls and same road and same surroundings broke up any sense of measurement of how far they walked. Not that that intuition was very comforting either.

After going what must have been over a league deep into the Tunnel, Maitimo was shaken from his daze as he was suddenly jolted to the left, nearly stumbling all over again, but the hand in his hair kept him upright. He looked around, eyes focusing on a crevice in the wall. He would not have thought twice of the crevice, would not have even spotted it to begin with. There was no emphasizing of its presence in the Tunnel. It was just sitting there. A tall and broad crack. But the Orc-host veered towards it and, being made to plunge into another dell of darkness, Maitimo found himself almost falling down a stairwell.

Stairs. Maitimo looked down at the crooked steps, dreary understanding clicking into place.

Valar, no.

He ended up being made to walk for several more hours, which eventually started to quickly pass in a blur. But this time all Maitimo could glean of the journey was that the Orcs marched him down. Down and down and down. The Orc-speaker was a constant presence at his side, the hand never relenting in the grip of his hair, but the rest of the Orcs had bottlenecked at the crevice and were now spread out behind Maitimo with only a few preceding him. The width of this lesser tunnel was only great enough for a handful or so to stand abreast. The torch was borne by an Orc at the van and Maitimo kept tossing his gaze between it and the ground that the torchlight barely illuminated, but he needed to see where he was going, where he was stepping because these stairs were so hazardous to traverse with how crooked and misshapen they were, especially at the speed the Orc-speaker kept forcing him along.

Thousands upon thousands of steps, down and down and down. The stairwells spiraled, first one way and then the other. Maitimo's expression eventually twisted with anxiety. There was no logic to the pattern of the stair's layout! Maitimo tried, so greatly tried to memorize the path they took. To remember which direction they turned when a fork came in the tunnel, to remember any distinct landmarks that could be a guide for him. At several corners or turns there were carven images, which were memorable enough he supposed, but Maitimo was whisked by them too fast to discern just what was depicted in the stone. But he tried to remember the turns, so he could reverse them in his memory later on to retrace them. It was all he could think to do. Left, left, right, left, forward, down, right again, another right until he felt to go in a full circle, left, up a short stair, forward and back down another stair, right, left, another left….

Maitimo shook his head, despite the constraints of the Orc-speaker's fist. He wanted to scream. Just how huge was this damned fortress? He had always been able to take pride in a steadfast sense of navigation, but it was utterly failing him now in these winding tunnels and labyrinthine stairs. He only knew that they went down. And that they had now been descending this knot-work of passageways longer than they had walked the Tunnel. But Valar, he had to keep to memory something to be able to escape from here! Yet he felt like he was going in circles and was now so accursedly lost in trying to mentally map the layout. That tangible oppression of Darkness grew only more smothering and the Orcs echoed in the tunnels and stairwells even louder than they had in the Great Tunnel. They were elated. That much could be told by their voices.

Rather abruptly, the descent ended.

They turned one last corner and passed through an archway that opened up into another vast hall. Only this hall, long and straightly quarried, contained the first pair of doors he had so far seen.

The sight of such a simple commodity was almost startling. The narrow passageway broadened in width and grew in height. But the walls had a strange texture, their rock looking like it had been frozen in time during a bubbling churn of their stones. But straight ahead was a cavernous mouth of those two, incongruous doors. The doors were presently shut, but they towered at least four times taller than an Elf and were made of stone, framed in iron, and ribbed with tines. Iniquitous colors from yellows to reds permeated from the other side through the framework, giving it a glowing outline much like a gate.

Maitimo stiffened, a knot forming in the pit of his stomach as he stopped breathing. The Nethermost Hall. That was what the Orc-speaker called it. Named it! His heart faltered for a brief moment in his chest and then jumped to a palpation it had never raced at before. He could barely breathe air into his lungs or remove his eyes from those doors that loomed ever larger the closer he was shoved towards them. Until he was kneeling before his lord in the Nethermost Hall, the Orc-speaker said. Great Manwë, Moringotto was on the other side of those doors. The tendrils of Darkness brushing his fëa grew more vicious and Maitimo felt faint on his feet, but the Orcs and Orc-speaker ensured that he did not miss a single step.

Maitimo was dragged closer to the doors, close enough that he could see that the doors had no handles or method to open them. Unless they opened only by the will of he who made them. He could hear a whole assortment of noises from the other side, cordoned off only by the doors' thick stone. There was a shifting of shadows in the light that shone beneath the doors. The heat grew. The Orc-speaker glanced at Maitimo as he finally slowed their pace down to a clumsy stop, though his fist twisted even tighter in his hair in clear warning.

And without any forewarning and seemingly of their own accord, the doors opened.

* * *

Angamando: Angband, translating to 'hells of iron' or 'iron-gaol' from _Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth_ MR.350  
Moriquendë/Amaneldë: the singular of Moriquendi/Amaneldi  
Geography: As with all geographical minutiae, Karen Wynn Fonstad's _The Atlas of Middle-earth, Revised Edition_ was also consulted for the potentially conjectural volcanic activity and the dimensional detail of both Angband and Thangorodrim.


	13. Moringotto

.

 **Chapter 13:** **  
** **Moringotto**

Maitimo was shoved through the doors before they even fully opened.

And again he stumbled and nearly fell flat on his face, but the Orc-speaker still held a fistful of his hair and, once more, he was dragged upright by said hair. His scalp by now felt like it was burning, but such a complaint became nonexistent when Maitimo was finally hauled to a stop in the center of a cavernous chamber, which was filled to the brim with a host of dark creatures. The Orc-host followed close in his wake and halted to gather together behind him. His eyes flew around in the sparse few moments he had and he was rendered completely and utterly still as his surroundings became clear. Valar, he did not even twitch.

This was a throne room if there ever was one and it was lit with the fire of flaming braziers erected on either side of the dais. Many pillars vast in height towered in a circle to the dome-structured roof, ruthless and ghastly images carven into their granular stone, and their beams connecting to the ceiling twisted like serpents. There were three other archways barred by iron gates in the walls of the Nethermost Hall, leading off into some other unknown passageway. Hideous devices clearly fashioned to inflict torment lined the walls and were coated in what were equally clearly layers of dried blood, along with a whole assortment of lethal armaments, spears and scimitars among them and many more weapons so bizarre in their craft that Maitimo could not even think of what to call them, if they had a name. The stone floor was shot with veins of iron and in the shadows of the pillars he could see with a sense of revulsion many snakes curling and uncurling, their hissing lost in the echoing ruckus of all the beasts. And the very air itself singed with wizardry of some sort because colorless shapes shimmered and weaved through the open space, distorting the fire of the braziers whenever they passed in front of them.

And there on top of the dais straight ahead and on an obsidian throne sat Moringotto.

The Orc-speaker suddenly released the ruthless grip on his hair. Maitimo nearly sighed in relief without even thinking about it. His scalp's reprieve was instant as the copper strands fell to sweep against his back.

The relief was short lived.

He heard a clang to his left and, whipping his head in that direction, he was only fast enough to see that the Orc-speaker now held a long-shafted spear in hand. Before any significance of that could even compute, the Orc-speaker moved with that uncanny speed of his and the spear was swept into action, blurring in the air as it arched down and slammed against the back of Maitimo's knees. He collapsed to the floor, pain shooting through both his knees as he crashed down on them and he cringed, hunching over as he clenched his teeth against the searing hurt. Loathing for the Orc-speaker burned in his chest again as he kept his head bowed, but he turned a dark glower in his direction. But a greater fury was blossoming as he felt his body spark with something dangerous all over the place. He could have hissed. He dared, Maitimo seethed, working his jaw. He dared! Valar, that any creature of even the weakest kind would be expected to kneel before Moringotto!

He shifted on his knees to spring to his feet, or foot, but before he could do much more than straighten his back, he caught sight of a flash of silver out of the corner of his eye and felt a prickling sting at his neck. He froze, eyes traveling up the shaft of the spear to the Orc-speaker, who met the intensity of his glower without a flinch. The Orc-speaker held the whetted spearhead against the hollow of his throat, the angle of its tapered point just right so that it would spear into his skin should he rise up any further.

Maitimo glared at him. The Orc-speaker glared back with a faint look of amused pleasure, as though daring him to rise, to just revolt away at being made to kneel before his Master. Maitimo watched him for a long moment. And the Orc-speaker watched him, his hold of the spear unwavering. Maitimo turned his eyes down to the spearhead, briefly observing how its beaten iron reflected the light of the braziers. He looked away.

Well, he was glad to be off his foot anyway.

Moringotto softly chuckled from his throne, the sound dark and deep, and all the other riotous noise in the Hall immediately died down. "Well done, my children."

Maitimo stiffened, his whole body flushing with heat as he snapped his gaze up to glare at him. Oh, to the Void with his foot! Even though it was not of his own accord, he would still not kneel even upon two broken knees before that hell-wrought Vala! Dismissing the spear at his throat entirely, Maitimo shifted even quicker to rise to his feet, his movements agitated.

But looking fully at Moringotto for the first time, Maitimo froze before he could roll off his knees, shock stealing over him.

Moringotto sat there on his throne, clothed wholly in the blacks or various shades of it and with one leg crossed over the other. And there they were, resting on his head: the Silmarils, all three of them with their lustrous and bright Light, but his father's Jewels were enmeshed in the crooked claws of some horrid, metal crown.

But it was not the Silmarils that rendered Maitimo speechless.

It was Moringotto himself.

Maitimo could only stare at him, barely stopping himself from gaping. He was different. So different. So horribly different. In Valinor he had walked clad in an appearance so similar to that of Manwë's that no one who saw the both of them together could deny they were brothers. Brilliant blue eyes ringed with gold even more so than Manwë's, holy in their countenances, faces lit up with beatific smiles, and right along with Manwë Moringotto had been garbed in raiment fit for the highest of kings. Literally. Because once he had been reinstated by Manwë among the Appointed Dwellers and released from his parole, Moringotto's true magnificence had seemed to blossom into full bloom as he became a Being so bright and glorious that his presence alone had been humbling. Valar, he had been more beautiful than Manwë himself! More than the Elder King, who had been the longstanding epitome of might and blessed beauty. He could still recall how it had been spoken far and wide of how even Manwë looked lesser in power and majesty when standing next to his brother, let alone the rest of the Valar. But now….Maitimo regarded him with no little horror. By the vastness of Eä, what cruelty had befallen him that he now looked like this? Moringotto's face that had been so unspeakable in beatitude was now hideous. Was now something disturbingly dark. His hair was no longer its unbound tresses of silken golds and whites, but now black and coarse and almost as lackluster as the hair of those Orcs who had any, and his eyes were a soulless black. Or so dark a brown that they nearly looked black. But all of it was made doubly awful because, forget whatever fell fate he had cast upon himself, Moringotto was still so recognizable!

Maitimo could not help but think that this was what a skewed and broken version of Manwë would look like. As if, like Thangorodrim with Oiolossë, with the Mountains of Angamando and the Pelóri, Moringotto now sought to make a mockery of Manwë himself with his own appearance. As though if Manwë were to look into a blackened mirror, distorted with cracks of evil and streaks of hellacious blemishes, this was what he would see staring back.

Moringotto quirked an eyebrow, a faint look of what might have been amusement ghosting across his face as he gave an absent flick of his fingers. "Finished staring?"

The abrupt power of his voice snapped Maitimo out of his daze and he glanced down at the brief movement of Moringotto's hand. His brow creased in a frown. Moringotto's hand was black. He first thought it to be a play of the shadows dancing throughout the Hall, but no. That hand was literally blackened.

Why was it blackened?

Also belatedly, Maitimo realized that though Moringotto had spoken in Quenya, his minions appeared to have no difficulty understanding what he said since they now cackled and shuffled energetically at his words. Even the witless Orcs, Maitimo noticed with some surprise. He looked quickly around the Hall, only with his eyes and barely turning his head, truly taking notice of the other occupants of the throne room for the first time. Throng after throng of Orcs lined the walls, along with what looked like canines and even felines that were monstrous and vicious in their forms intermixed between the Orcs' bodies. There was even a Valarauko present, he suddenly saw with some alarm. Valar, how in all of Arda had he been unaware of the presence of a Valarauko when first entering? But the demon wreathed in flame was there, towering above him and the heat of his fire burning Maitimo's skin.

But, almost by chance, Maitimo distinctly noticed that several of the many Orcs stood with the same stillness and dangerous silence as the Orc-speaker did. The same calmly composed set in their postures, the same fey look on their unreadable faces, and the same sensation of Darkness that seemed to exude from their very beings.

Maitimo felt a wave of foreboding come over him as he recalled the conversation with his brothers, of his own thoughts after first meeting the Orc-speaker. Valar, did Moringotto truly have more Maiar at his beck and call? Obviously yes now, but how many?

Maitimo forcibly turned his eyes back to Moringotto, but he kept his mouth shut.

Moringotto seemed possibly even more satisfied, but his face was difficult to read. He cocked his head, never removing his eyes from Maitimo as he gestured towards his crown. "You wanted one of these?"

Maitimo's eyes flicked up to the Silmarils and he felt a strange, pained sensation in his chest as he took in those self-luminous Jewels. He was almost startled by the fierce longing that hit him without warning as he became agonizingly aware of just how long it had truly been since he last saw the Light of the Trees. But, forcibly again, he ripped his eyes away. He did not know what Moringotto wanted, but he would not give him any satisfaction if he could help it. Not any more than he already had.

He deflated a little bit, swallowing down all the words that wanted to burst from his mouth. "What do you want of me?" he forced out.

"What want I of you?" Moringotto echoed in a tone of mild surprise, though his eyes did not look the least bit taken aback. He relaxed against his throne, twitching the fingers of his blackened hand again. "Should such not be my question, esteemed prince? Or has your body grown so feeble that all your wits forsook you upon such a meager stretch of land?" He shook his head dismissively. "Come, wise son of Fëanáro. Ill deeds you may have done, but you have yet to fall so far that your intellect would be diminished. No, Nelyafinwë, you followed me to Endórë in _my_ wake, as I recall, so what do _you_ want of _me?_ "

Maitimo face grew dark as he scowled at him. "You still dragged me here, and I refuse to play any game of words with you. In adders would I place more trust," he rasped out. "You may force me to my knees, but you would have to kill me before I would ever do it of my own accord, so pray stop your playing, Moringotto!"

"Moringotto…." He murmured the name in nearly a whisper. A slight smile tilted up the corner of his mouth as he visibly reflected on the meaning of the title. But he never removed his eyes from Maitimo. Maitimo tensed, suddenly wondering how Moringotto would react to the name his father and now the Noldor called him. But Moringotto did not speak of it at all. "You speak of tongues," he said after a long pause, his face clearing of whatever idle contemplation briefly showed there. "Yet you seem ill aware that it would take but one fleeting thought of my will to see your own wagging tongue carved out and tossed at my feet."

Maitimo opened his mouth to spit out the response that instantly sprang to his lips, but he bit them back before the first syllable emerged. He closed his mouth with a glower, pressing his lips together even as he felt the muscles in his neck and shoulders coil tight. He could taste the bitterness in his mouth, but as much as it made him simmer, he knew Moringotto had the upper hand right now no matter what he would say.

Moringotto's face appeared to take on that faint expression of amusement again, though no smile or any hint of humor quirked his lips. "Well, well," he drawled. "He can learn. I suppose I should be grateful to have hesitated to see you slain with your kin upon that field. But pray tell, why did you decide to bring three score Noldor instead of one?"

He again held his tongue, refusing to take the bait. He forced his voice to be calm. "What do you want of me?"

"As to that, you will see. Does a master answer to one on his knees?" He grinned softly, a fleeting twist of his mouth. "No, I think not."

Maitimo almost glowered. "Why not answer? You slew sixty of my people to see me brought here, so be done with this!"

Moringotto stared at him, did not say a single word or so much as twitch, and their conversation lapsed into a silence that started to feel very awkward. Maitimo did not know what to expect and he stiffened again as the silence grew thick with tension. Even the Orcs were shuffling their feet. But all the Vala did was narrow his eyes, yet not in anger. Maybe. Maitimo could only see mild curiosity in them. "What have you seen of Angamando?"

Maitimo regarded him blankly, nonplussed. His own eyes narrowed as he looked up and down the Vala's form. What trick was this? What could Moringotto be fishing for with such an innocent inquiry? It was precisely because it was innocent that Maitimo did not trust it. He gave a slow shake of his head. "As if it matters? Even if it did, I refuse to let the words of Quenya suffer the telling of my thoughts of this cave."

Moringotto showed no reaction. "I asked not what you thought but what you saw."

Maitimo hesitated again, the suspicion growing. "Nothing."

"Exactly. I have little patience to speak as I would in the face of such ignorance." Moringotto uncrossed his legs and gave another absent flick of his hand. Maitimo frowned as his eyes were again briefly drawn to the blackened appendage. The Vala really seemed to have a habit of doing that. "I will not barter with a prince of fools, but with one enabled to understand my will." He held up a finger. "So this once I grant you leave to speak whatever you wish to say. Or ask. Do with it as you will, but know on the morrow that your tongue will be as greatly bound as your hands now are. So be at ease to let it wag freely one last time."

Maitimo dithered at the pronouncement, the headache along his temple slowly returning with a vengeance at the booming of that baritone. He did not know how to respond to that at all. He wracked his brain, for what he had not a clue, but he worked it nearly as fast as his heart was beating, careful to not let one thought enter his face. What should he say? Or more so, why should he even bother saying anything? It was not as if he had nothing to say. Oh no, he had plenty. But the whole slat of brickbat he was all too ready to vocalize was barricaded by the very real fact that now was not the time for rebellious words, not when it would not amount to anything beneficial except to make him feel better. Which still felt like a worthwhile incentive, but he had to tread cautiously right now until he caught on to just what game Moringotto was determined to play. So he said nothing at all. For all he knew, Moringotto was expecting him to burst out in flaming wrath, maybe even looked forward to it. And that was as good a deciding factor as any for him.

But Moringotto just waited. And waited. The tittering of the Orcs began to grow at his prolonged silence and Maitimo sighed, refraining from rolling his eyes. "And what should I say?" The lilt of sarcasm was not lost.

Moringotto's eyebrow hiked up just a little, his face one of distrait patience, but that could have easily been a mask for all Maitimo knew. Moringotto shifted forward, leaning on his knees as he canted his head to the side. "How about why you decided to bring three score Noldor instead of one?"

Maitimo scowled, unable to withhold both the biting irritation and disgust at his apparent fascination with the subject. A whole slew of emotions churned in his chest at the thought, but Maitimo refused to answer. He had no idea why Moringotto so badly wanted that detail clarified and Maitimo was not even sure if he even wanted to know his reasoning.

Moringotto chuckled from low in his throat, smiling in full as he gave a slight shake of his head. "You cannot even say it."

"Say what?" he snapped. "How you are deserving of any woes to befall you for every evil you purposed?"

Moringotto snorted. "Bold words for one who marched into an unknown land to parley with an unknown enemy with thrice the number agreed upon, and thus leading all those with him to their deaths in a territory you could little predict." Maitimo inwardly started at the words, but a morsel of it must have shown in his face because Moringotto gave him a meaningful look. "I think I know my own land better than those who invaded it." It was all he said.

But it was enough and Maitimo felt himself deflate, and it was a battle to keep his face empty of any thought now. Sornion and Carnistir had been correct, he realized with a faint sense of despair, guilt washing over him all over again. Both of them had spoken of it being an unknown territory to the Noldor and both had proposed that Moringotto had selected the steppe for the appointed place precisely because they knew nothing about it. They had been right.

Moringotto huffed, his eyes contemplative. "Truly, Child, whatever led you to believe that you could win against me when not even my dear brother can?" he asked softly with a hint of incredulity.

Maitimo scoffed, not bothering to answer that one at all. Even if he could or wanted to, there were only two answers. Either he could win against him and Moringotto was just shrouding himself with a splendid act or he could not, especially if said dear brother could not. But then, that was difficult to tell since the Valar had done nothing at the time of the Darkening.

"Exactly."

This time Maitimo could not keep the surprise from his face, startled that Moringotto had perceived his thought. But in retrospect, he realized after a pregnant moment, it was foolish to be struck by it at all. As had been emphasized since before their Flight and after, Moringotto was a Vala, akin to his Brethren in every way, including, as now evidenced, their perception of the workings of Elves' minds. But the Valar had always possessed the courtesy to grant the Amaneldi privacy for their thoughts. Only now, Maitimo postulated darkly, Moringotto would probably exploit everything the Valar had not, use every ability that a Vala had whether an Elf permitted it or not that the Valar had never abused with the Children. The full implications of that revelation nearly sent Maitimo shaking all over again.

Moringotto chuckled again. "Come now, be not so harsh on me just yet. Really, such faith you have in my Brethren. Be honest with yourself, Nelyafinwë, for do you truly believe that your precious Valar never inspected your thoughts, even at a distance? That they always granted you that courtesy when no Elf would be the wiser otherwise?" He scoffed, leaning back to sit erect again. "Do not bother me with such naivety, and be not such a fool. But then again, I must digress, for you Noldor ever loved to shout you were above the folly of thinking wrongly. Too wise to stoop so low."

Maitimo lowered his gaze, sighing and feeling all of the sudden weary and despondent. "What do you want?"

"Need I a reason?" He tsked. "Typical Noldo, to think all things revolve around you."

Maitimo turned a derisive scowl on him. "And typical evasion. Three times have I asked and three times have you denied answering what you want of me."

There was a silence. A long silence. A silence that even fell among all the beasts in the Hall with only the burning of the braziers and hissing of serpents echoing in the vast cavern, and Maitimo again tensed, expecting some hostile response to his words. He became acutely aware again of the spear still poised at his throat, the razor point digging into his skin. But then Moringotto smiled, just a slight one. But that minor smile was more sincere than any he had given so far and Maitimo shivered at the dark promise and even pleasure it carried. He then realized with a sense of foreboding that he must have spoken something very wrong in regards to himself, or very right in the eyes of Moringotto. The Vala was clearly pleased.

That could not be good.

Moringotto finally shifted his all-pervading eyes away and looked somewhere off to Maitimo's right, somewhere behind him. He nodded his chin towards whoever was there. "Bring it," he called. Lingering dust stirred from the floor at the boom of his voice and several Orcs shifted against each other, small high-pitched whines emerging from more than a few. Maitimo flicked his eyes over to them warily, shoulders immediately tensing.

There was a shuffle close by and Maitimo turned his head to look, wincing as the spear finally sliced into his skin. He stilled, castigating himself as he felt the hot dribbling of blood gather in the hollow of his throat. But he looked off to his right nonetheless and his brow furrowed in confusion. An Orc was passing him to approach Moringotto. The one he had kicked, he realized. When an arm's length away, the tremors now visible in the Orc's frame, Moringotto held out his hand and the Orc produced a sword, resting it in his Master's palm.

Maitimo's breath caught in his throat. It was his sword. His! That sheath and hilt were as familiar to him as his own limbs were. Astonishment washed over him and Maitimo strained his memory to recall any time he had seen that Orc bearing the sword he had owned since his self-imposed exile to Formenos. Valar, he had believed it lost on the field of the skirmish.

Moringotto dismissed the Orc with a wave. The silence of the Hall persisted as his eyes traveled unhurriedly along the weapon's length. The black fingers of his right hand moved softly along the exquisite craft of the sheath, fingertips tracing the intricate carvings in the heat-hardened leather. Gentle carvings often found on the spines of Fëanáro's many tomes. His other hand clasped the elegant hilt, the tang and guard crafted perfectly with the finest steel and the grip made of deeply dyed shagreen. And the pommel was bedecked with the smallest and brightest adamants arrayed in the design of his own emblem on one side and the Star of the House of Fëanáro on the other. Maitimo's eyes burned at the sudden memory of watching his father's dexterous fingers patiently cut every stone, carve every line, hammer and treat every fragment of that blade and then piece it all together. Of him glancing up from the delicate work to give a fond and even humored smile at Maitimo's rapt attention from where he hovered over his shoulder.

It was a beautiful sword and Maitimo's heart began to pound faster as he watched Moringotto paw at it.

Moringotto's voice resonated throughout the Hall, his eyes never ending their inspection of the sword. "Behold the craft of Fëanáro, mightiest of Children to have been and to be," he mused, an indiscernible look on his face. He reversed his grip on the sword so the hilt rested in his right hand, fingers still ghosting across it. "Yes. This sword of flawless make. This sword molded by flawless hands." His eyes turned from the blade to rest on Maitimo, dark and glittering. "This sword that could not even save his own firstborn from the thralldom he is fated to live." The Orcs tittered and yipped, but he spoke over their clamor as he unsheathed the sword, the slither of steel echoing. The razor-edged blade was still streaked with the dried, black blood of Orc, the fuller packed with congealed globs of it. He looked fully at Maitimo, the volume of his voice rising but still ever so composed. "Because you see, Nelyafinwë, one thing I learned while dwelling in the Abode of my Brethren is that the Noldor are a cancer, apparently no matter where they are, and such is it only proper to remove it. I will see your people gone from my demesne whether by death or by flight. Of that you may be assured. But you?" He gestured at him with the hilt of the sword, his other hand clenching on the sheath as another smile played at his mouth. "You will see a great many things.

"For one…." He rose from the chair, stepping down from the dais. "In Manwë's halls you bathed in scented waters and ate from silver salvers. In Manwë's halls you were garbed in kingly robes fit for the Ingaran and given leave to walk the wonders of my brother's abode freely. But in my halls," he went on with a meaningful look, and he reversed the grip on the sword so it was held aloft properly. "Pray let me clear you of any misconception."

Moringotto tossed the sword into the air, the steel briefly dancing with the hues of the flickering fires before the Orc-speaker caught it, removing the spear from Maitimo's throat as he did. Just as it registered to Maitimo that now would be as good a time as any to rise or attempt anything at all, he suddenly found himself faced with a mass of Orcs charging towards him and grabbing hold of him, urged on from what had to be some unspoken command from their Master. The Hall erupted with their roaring and cackles and the baying of felines echoed above in the heights where they lazily lounged to watch to the spectacle below.

The next few moments that went by impossibly fast were impossibly slow.

Maitimo began to fight against the pawing of the Orcs all over again when he realized their intent, his shoves and kicks erratic and frenzied. But the tearing of fabric somehow sounded even louder than the deafening noise in the Hall. His hands remained bound, the Orc-speaker once more a short distance away, but what had to be dozens of clawed hands grabbed fistfuls of his garb and tugged and yanked without care. His gambeson tore at the seams and elsewhere just from the tension put to the woven threads. He toppled over as the same was done to his leggings and the braes beneath them. Maitimo's sharp cry of pain was lost in the noise as both his rib and foot flared up mercilessly, but the Orcs kept at him like wild beasts fighting over the last scrap of meat until there was not one thread left on his body. And, again in unison, the Orcs retreated from him as he knelt there on the floor, hunched over and absolutely speechless while they all looked on.

Maitimo swiveled his eyes around wildly, catching his balance as he swayed and he became painfully aware of his nakedness when seeing every single pair of eyes trained on him. The subtle stirring of dust in the Hall felt more prominent than ever when it brushed against his skin and he shivered. Hard. His breaths came in small gasps, eyes widened as he watched the shreds of his clothes be dropped in a pile at Moringotto's feet. He stared at them. Utter shreds.

Moringotto observed it all in silence. But his eyes gleamed with a peculiar light and Maitimo was hit with the painful desperation to hide his body the longer they all watched him like a delightful spectacle. But he could not do anything, not even with his hands, no matter how he contorted himself. Just kneel there, his hair his only covering as numerous gazes burned into his skin.

Moringotto gave a single nod, looking him up and down. "So shall your presence be in _my_ halls! For you are no greater than the frail flesh you were born in. But more than your tongue and the toils of your body are now mine. Cover your indignity with a swaddling cloth if the shame burns you so greatly, but there is one glory you have that you shall not retain." He nodded to the Orc-speaker.

The Orc-speaker bowed, tossing down the spear where it clanged against the floor and approaching Maitimo with the un-Orcish speed he always moved with as he visibly adjusted his grip on the Elven sword. Maitimo frantically shifted to rise, but someone clamped down on his shoulders from the other side and he snapped his head around to see two Orcs rearing above him. Before he acted out, the Orc-speaker reached out and grabbed hold of his hair once more in a vice-like fist. All of it. He jerked Maitimo's head back at a painful angle, making it impossible to shift and, with three fluid motions of the sword, he sheared the locks of hair at his neck.

Maitimo's eyes flew open as his head fell forward at the sudden release and a great roar from the Orcs sounded in the Nethermost Hall, drowning out the baying and barking of the thanes and canines. The short, scraggily strands fell forward to curtain his face, but Maitimo was staring at the floor with unseeing eyes, frozen in utter shock. His hair….Maitimo's breaths quickened until he was hyperventilating, thoughts flying maddeningly as his whole body went quaking with fierce tremors.

His hair….

"Not anymore." Maitimo's eyes snapped up, crazed and shaken. Moringotto had returned to his throne, arms resting on the broad armrests. His left hand was held up, fingers working the long strands of hair between his knuckles, absently twisting it and running his thumb along the platform of hair as he inspected it as meticulously as he did the sword, as though it were currently the most interesting thing to exist. Moringotto looked at Maitimo, raising an eyebrow as he observed the expression on his face. "Be not too concerned," he said soothingly. "I have a double purpose for it." He wrapped the hair more fully around his hand, as if to store it away.

Maitimo watched his shorn tresses be fondled and felt as though he had been struck in the chest by a battering ram. The ignominy churned in his stomach until he tasted bile on the back of his tongue and he cringed as the wretchedness grew so consuming that he could not even feel the physical pangs of his body. His head spun, his heart felt to be crawling up his throat as his eyes raptly alighted on the way the firelight danced off the copper strands as they swayed back and forth in the hand clenching them. A choked wail broke from his throat. His hair….

Moringotto was watching him, never once lowering the handful of hair. He snorted, amusement breaking through to the surface of his face at only the Valar knew what he found humorous. "Some Finwë you are. You disappoint me. You will be tasting the most bitter of bales and this –" He gestured the hair. "– is hardly it. Yes, go ahead and trust me less than your adders!" he declared. "You will soon learn of all I speak, no matter the bitterness my words will be upon your fëa. But tread you wisely, Nelyafinwë, for insolence will earn you the lesson of contrition and disobedience will lead to far worse." The warning in his voice was very real and reflected in his hard expression. He again rose from his throne, moving more swiftly than the Orc-speaker did in a flurry of black robes until he stood before Maitimo's marked and naked form kneeling on the floor. He looked down at him, another peculiar light in his dark eyes. "What do I want of you? A bargain. But only after you see will I tell you of it."

"See what?" Maitimo screamed indignantly at him, horror and humiliation raw in his voice. His breathing came erratically. He could not slow it down!

But the satisfied look that coalesced in Moringotto's face told Maitimo that he had bitten the bait.

Moringotto stared at him for a long moment before turning his gaze on the Orc-speaker. And he nodded. "Ready the metal for the maker's hand."

The Orc-speaker and not a few other Orcs hauled him up to his feet ruthlessly. Maitimo's face contorted with disgust as he tried to wretch his body away from the paws that gripped at him in bare places, the movements short and desperate. The Orc-speaker did not grab him viciously by the hair again, as if he even could anymore to the degree he had before, but the clad Maia did clasp his strong fingers around the back of his neck, his claws piercing into the ring of bruises on either side of his throat. And the next thing he knew, he was being as manhandled as when he was first marched downward through all the tunnels as he was turned around and shoved towards the open doors of the Nethermost Hall. Not even a quarter of the Orc-host he arrived with moved with him, but he was still surrounded and the cackles and roars and growls of the many fell beasts in the domed throne room resounded behind him. His left foot seared with agony upon every step and he practically hopped on his one good foot, dragged the rest of the way.

"Nelyafinwë, beware!"

The Orc-speaker forced him to a stop just beyond the threshold of the doors and turned him back around. Moringotto was standing in front of his throne, fingers absently wringing the mane of hair. His Orcs and other creatures did not quiet down, but he spoke over their noise, uplifting his chin and his eyes penetrating Maitimo's own. "If you are brought to this Hall outside of my summons, someone will die for it. Heed that well."

Maitimo wanted to scoff to the ceiling and then follow it up with a mocking laugh, and he would have if not for the Orc-speaker's nails digging into his neck! Well, he supposed he must give Moringotto some credit. It was the first time he had been directly threatened with death ever since he awoke from unconsciousness. Not even the Orcs or even the Orc-speaker had indulged in that. Sure, they had jostled him and slammed axes against him and threw him against rocks and debased him in whatever manner they could, but even they had abstained from such direct threats. Oh, let him go forth instead and tremble before Moringotto! As if he had never once anticipated the very real possibility of being killed!

Maitimo knew his face was dark, but Moringotto did not comment on it. He just looked on as he spoke further, "Be welcomed to Angamando, for you have found your new home, thanks to your father." He lifted an eyebrow, another suggestive smile appearing. "Or mayhap it shall soon be thanks to your brothers."

Before Maitimo could even formulate a response, the stone doors rolled on their hinges and boomed shut.


	14. He is Alive

.

 **Chapter 14:** **  
** **He is Alive**

The sixty corpses had been arranged as Makalaurë bade with as much care and deference as could be given in their frail and decomposed states. The mound was ready, the bodies stripped of all armor and arms and shrouded in the cloaks they had worn across the steppes. No tinder was needed since the decaying conditions of their bodies would prove to be kindling enough. The host of warriors was congregated in a crescent assembly on the eastward side of the line of corpses, facing to the west, as though acting as a final barrier between the fallen Elves and the horror that lay eastward, as well as the scattered carcasses of Orcs, which they refused to handle any more than necessary. And standing there, watching the sons of Fëanáro arranged themselves around the mound, each with a torch in hand, many felt a depth of impotence at the poor farewell they were resorting their kin to.

Coromindo was one of them. He stood towards the back of the assembly, his vision of the mound impeded by the many warriors standing ahead of him. His body was stiff but still as he stood at attention, yet he could not help grounding the butt of his spear into the bedrock of dirt. Once again, he saw the restless shifting of the Elf beside him from the corner of his eye and turned to the other half of their archer unit with more than a little exasperation.

"Stop fidgeting," he hissed, barely moving his lips.

Alcarion made a face at him but nonetheless stopped his fidgeting. "Leave off. You know I mean not to."

"If I can notice others can as well, so be still."

"Well, my apologies, high spearman, but should we not be leaving?"

Coromindo turned an incredulous glare on him. "How can you be so heartless?"

"Not heartless!" he refuted in a harsh whisper. Alcarion's eyes were bright as he wrung his hand on the pommel of his sword. "I must now go tell my cousin that her husband is dead, but Prince Maitimo is missing and every hour more is a loss to his rescue."

Coromindo sighed wearily, but there was a frustrated tick to his jaw. "Three weeks have passed, Alcarion," he murmured, turning his eyes back to the mound. "Mere hours mean little in the face of such time. You know that. For as much as you and I would obsess about it, I can only imagine the thoughts plaguing my lords when Maitimo is their brother. If the princes can muster the discipline to postpone our going after him so that we may honor the fallen, then so can you, however long it will take." He saw the faltering look of Alcarion's expression and relented, sighing once again, this time in commiseration. "I would rather that we were going after him without delay as much as you. Believe that, if anything. And I am certain it will be done after we have paid witness to the burn of the mound."

He saw Alcarion open his mouth to speak from the corner of his eye, heard him draw in the breath to do so, but Coromindo was startled at the sudden smack to the back of his head. A hard one. He winced away, whipping around and finding himself face to face with Captain Ehticánë and he froze. Alcarion had the same look of alarm on his face and Coromindo realized that he must have been smacked on the back of his head too, but Ehticánë was a Captain of the Ehtyari, his own Company, and Coromindo felt the weight of his hard gaze doubly so. Ehticánë bore a cold face, his eyes swiveling back and forth between the two and Coromindo cringed, turning again to face the mound.

"Both of you be silent," the Captain warned in a sharp whisper as he leaned in between them. "Have you no respect for your fallen kin?"

Coromindo resisted shifting on his feet. "Pray pardon us, Captain. We but spoke of the delay to commence the search of Prince Maitimo but agreed to have patience." Alcarion gave a short nod, eyes trained forward.

Captain Ehticánë was glaring at him. Them. He could feel it. He could not see it, but he could feel it.

"See that you do," he said after a pause, a tad less severe. "But keep yourselves calm. I held discourse with Prince Tyelkormo on the matter and it would be foolhardy to march unto the Enemy with only the amount of warriors we presently number. All of the Noldohossë will be needed and we must return to the Host to inform the families of the fallen, as well as so Prince Curufinwë may be made aware of all that has happened. Only then will it be wise to march out as swiftly as we are able."

Both of them were silent, but Coromindo did notice Alcarion trying to catch his gaze. He met it briefly, too well aware of the Captain's proximity. "Oh," he finally murmured, mostly for the sake of saying something. "I knew not such discussions were underway."

"I am confident many things have been spoken between our princes, but such is neither my concern nor yours. And Prince Tyelkormo spoke the little he did to me because I sought his instruction of what we were to do. Delaying the search of Prince Maitimo may be an error in your minds and mayhap many others, but they do the honorable thing."

"It is a mild wonder to me Makalaurë did not lift his voice in song for this," Alcarion mused in a murmur.

Coromindo looked at him. "Perhaps he awaits the burial of the shields to do so, so that all of the Host may hear."

Alcarion raised an eyebrow. "That is the reason for the order to take up the shields?"

"Yes," Captain Ehticánë answered impatiently. "Now be silent the both of you. No mutters should be passing between any two of us."

Coromindo winced again. "Understood, Captain."

No further words were exchanged, though Captain Ehticánë remained standing still and silent behind them. A solemn hush fell over the assembled host of warriors. It had been that way before, the eerie silence of the steppe broken only by the shuffling of bodies as they moved to position or shifted where they stood, but as all eyes watched the five present sons of Fëanáro arrange themselves around the elongated mound of corpses, not even the muffled sound of a boot scraping across the ground was heard.

Each prince bore a torch in hand, the flames dancing wildly in the winds that were still blasting harshly across the plains, nearly blowing out on more than one occasion. But their torches along with the many held aloft among the multitude of warriors were the only illuminations in the darkness of the gales still knitted overhead, and their ominous flickering lent no favor to the gruesome sight of the corpses. It only made them look more horrific to the eye and Makalaurë again felt a swell of anger and shame that this deplorable fashioning of a burial was to be their end. That they would be burned, unadorned with a reverential shroud or honorable treatment. That not even their families and friends could look upon them one last time.

Makalaurë finished his slow walk around the corpses, having put each face to memory no matter how ghastly and rotten they now looked. His brothers had followed to shroud the bodies in the cloaks they had died with, something Makalaurë had done personally with Sornion, whose last bit of neck had finally torn under the pressure of how he had been laid. He now stood at one end, Tyelkormo on the other and Carnistir and the twins interspersed along the middle. He supposed that he should speak some words, to just say something, anything. But as he gazed along the row of five dozen bodies, no words came. No words could fix this. And any that sprung to mind just felt like a mockery of their demise, in that they had died, so yes, words now must be spoken about it. As if it were some cold tradition. Makalaurë's eyebrows creased together over his eyes, his intakes of breath becoming shallower. He stared at the corpses, and stared. Stared at their putrefied flesh and bloodied apparel, any sense of time feeling to seize up until there was nothing left but that cold, blasting wind. That damnable blasting wind.

He abruptly ripped his eyes away, lifting them up to find Tyelkormo looking intently at him from across the way, waiting and clearly refusing to break such a desolate silence himself.

Makalaurë looked sidelong at the warriors assembled to his left, standing tall and deathly still with the spearheads of those bearing spears glinting coldly under the torchlight. He looked back at Tyelkormo and then to his other brothers, each meeting his own gaze and somehow managing to hold it. The twins looked as sick as he felt.

He nodded to them, hefting his own torch and leaning over to rest it in as far as he could reach, laying it down so that the core of the fire rested between two heads. The hair would catch fire the quickest with how brittle and utterly dried it was, and unless the wind worked against them the rest of their bodies should be quick to follow. His brothers followed his gesture and placement of the torch, and they retreated several steps back as the flame quickly burst into a fierce burn. The hair caught fire in an instant and quickly burned to ash, followed by the cloak, then apparel, and then the body beneath it all. Makalaurë had to step back even further as the fire grew tall and bright with blistering heat, even with the wind working to tame it. Black smoke filtered up, filling the air with a putrid stench, but Makalaurë refused to move or cover his nose. Or hold his breath. His brothers had done the same, remaining resolutely still and there was not one shift among the mass of warriors. Makalaurë tossed a quick glance their way, not surprised to see that all of them were looking at the mound. The corpses were barely visible beneath the bright flames and their booted feet were quickly engulfed in the inferno.

Makalaurë watched them burn, eyes watering at the heat that singed his face. It would take hours for the mound to burn out, until nothing remained but ashes and maybe some of their bones. But he would not move until it did.

O = O = O

Curufinwë ducked inside his and his son's tent, again briefly amazed at how empty it felt without Carnistir and sometimes Tyelkormo loitering inside. Much of its material was salvageable, the fire the encampment had suffered thankfully having only reached the front corner of the structure before the rain had doused it. The rest had been resultantly waterlogged, but it was drying. Slowly. Everything was drying slowly. Even as he knelt on the grass to open his satchel, he felt the knees of his leggings immediately dampen with moisture. Forget the moisture. He could actually feel the water against his skin. But at least they were not walking through a swamp with every step anymore. Curufinwë had to concede that much.

All he had left to do was strike up his own tent, which was essentially the only remaining chore of the whole Host. And it was a good thing that the tents were left as the last task to handle since it gave the material a longer time to dry out. A buildup of mildew was the last nuisance they needed right now. Curufinwë had just returned from his brothers' tents, having scoured them for any small and loose belonging that needed to be stored away before ordering their tents to be dismantled and folded, save for the twins'. Pityafinwë and Telufinwë's tent had burned completely, though fortunately the chest containing anything of personal or important value to them had remained intact, however charred. Makalaurë's had survived the fire, appearing not to have even been touched by a lick of flame, but the tent itself had collapsed entirely beneath the torrent of water. And his father and Maitimo's tent….

Curufinwë sighed, closing his eyes as he clenched his jaw. His hands worked faster to untie the satchel, the scrabbling of his fingers sharp and stiff before yanking the fabric against the drawstrings. He was shoving in the last of the belongings when he sensed movement to his right and he looked up, smiling slightly as he saw Telperinquar shuffle forward.

"You slept well, yonya?" he inquired, tying the satchel back up.

He nodded, his fine hair still tousled from said sleep. "Is there paint?"

"Paint? For what?"

He lifted up his hands silently, in which he held a small figurine carved from wood. Curufinwë gave another soft smile as he saw it, reaching up to pat down his son's hair. "You like your little horse?"

He nodded again, looking down at it as he ran a fingernail along a groove. "Uncle Turko said he forgot to ask Anatar how he carved manes."

Curufinwë glanced down at the horse, finding himself impressed again by its fine whittling. And the slight smile grew as he inspected the straight lines that made up the mane. "He was kind to finish the piece. But why ask you for paint? To paint it?" It was more rhetorical than anything since his son had somewhat outgrown the playing of toys and now found more interest in adding color to their muted woods. Sure enough, Telperinquar nodded in answer again and Curufinwë squeezed his shoulder as he rose to a stand. "It gladdens me to hear it, but the wonders of Endórë are still new and we must first find the dyes to make the paints, do we not? Which will happen soon enough, I imagine, for the seamstresses will not want to go too long without hues to their fabrics. But pack that away for now, Telepitya," he added, tapping the horse with his finger. "We will soon be departing. And unless waylaid, your uncles are due to return any hour now."

As if in an uncanny answer to his words, the distinctive blast of the trumpet of Makalaurë suddenly sounded across the encampment, followed by the horn of Tyelkormo, their blares on the ears less great due to how far they were evidently still away. But Curufinwë had to scoff, shaking his head in grim amusement at the timing of his words and their announcement of arrival. He gave Telperinquar a wry grin. "Well, look at that. They come as we speak. Give me that." He took the little horse, bending over to open the satchel again just enough to work the whittled wood inside. He straightened, taking Telperinquar's hand and leading him outside the tent, absently tidying the child's hair with his other hand.

Curufinwë turned to the guard standing at attention just beyond the anchor pegs. The remainder of the King's Guard had gone with his brothers over the mountains, but that did not stop Makalaurë from assigning a contingent of warriors to ensure his own wellbeing. "I go to the command tent," he told the Elf. "See that my lord brothers know I await them there if they search me out here." The Elf bowed in response, moving away as Curufinwë led his son out of the mud, the majority of the grass of their green having been completely burnt.

"See that you mind Canyadil and Riellotë, Telpë," he said as they walked along the makeshift pathway through the field of tents. "I know not how long I will be, but I will come to you before we move out." He ran his fingers through his hair. "Be good now."

Telperinquar nodded up at him, the grip of his small hand tightening on his own, but he was silent the rest of the short distance to the Elves' assigned tent, which they had by now struck up and now sat around a dying campfire. Curufinwë kissed him on his brow, tousling his hair and gripping Canyadil's shoulder in brief gratitude while Telperinquar gave him a quick embrace around his legs. He heard Riellotë speaking to Telperinquar in her soft voice as he proceeded on towards the command tent.

Though several Elves straightened at his passing and followed him with their eyes, very few attempted to stop him. Everyone had been forewarned of the pattern blown on the horn so as to be assured it was not of any impending attack like the last time. But nonetheless, Curufinwë's heart began to beat all the faster at knowing that the moment had come. Being forced to idleness had been a torment on its own, but Curufinwë had done his best (he hoped) to see that the Host and he himself had been kept busy, which came easily enough since salvaging any good materials and then packing all the essentials and equipment and possessions took time, all of which had gradually accumulated during their crossing of Hísilómë. Of course, much of that accumulation had been burned by the fire and Curufinwë could only beseech to the stars that the Host did not harbor too much bitterness for it, particularly against he and his brothers. Though the healing ward had suffered entirely and only charred scraps of its material were left behind, floating in the pools of water, over a third of the shelters of the Host and everything inside them had been destroyed as well. The stench of scorched textiles, woods, twines, and metals had lingered on the air for days, and the swamp of the encampment's turf had created a sludge-like mud due to all the debris the water had mixed with.

Curufinwë entered the green of the command tent, bypassing the fire pit that was still filled to the brim with water and surrounded by the first glimpses of fog that had started to appear. Few Elves loitered in this area, though he could see many Noldor now hustling in response to the horns. Makalaurë had made it clear that the Host would delay setting out to cross the river only a while longer after they returned from their search.

Watch your temper. Watch your temper. Watch your temper.

He reiterated the mantra again and again in his head as he sidled through the entrance of the tent, letting the flaps fall shut behind him. He was near plunged into darkness, the interior of the structure illuminated only by the starlight filtering through the two open vents. He looked around. He had personally seen to the disposal of those items that perished by the fire or water and then to the storage of everything else, though there had not been much remaining that Pityafinwë and Telufinwë had not initially packed into their haversacks. All left was the central table and a few collapsible chairs that yet needed to be stored away on a cart, along with the crates lining the tent wall. Curufinwë sighed. At least it was dry, he conceded as he moved to light several candles. He just had to keep a firm hold on his temper. But Valar, he had rarely been so furious with his brother.

He rested two sconces on top of the bare table, but as he went to light another he heard the flaps of the tent be shoved aside and quietly spoken words. He turned, seeing it was Lord Laiquisyar and his own Second Ingólemo who had entered. Both halted in their steps at the sight of him, mild surprise on their faces as they both gave brief, hasty bows.

"Pray forgive us, Highness," Laiquisyar spoke up, straightening with a frown. He retreated back a step. "We knew not you were in here."

Curufinwë shook his head dismissively, sighing as he continued to light the half dozen candles sitting around. "Stay, my lord. I am only preparing a place to hear whatever my brothers come to say." He saw the half-glanced look Laiquisyar and Ingólemo exchanged, even in the dim lighting, but he pointedly ignored it. "What did you need? Is aught wrong?"

"No, Highness. I heard the trumpets and word of your lord brothers' coming is being delivered to the outreaches of the encampment as we speak." Laiquisyar tightened the auburn cloak that was draped loosely over his shoulders as he looked around at the emptiness of the tent. "I clearly shared your own thought to come here."

Curufinwë paused at that, lighting the last of the candles and turning to face the two Elves more fully. He frowned slightly. "If you thought to, then others will also."

Laiquisyar's eyebrows hiked up in question. "Is the Council to be convoked?"

That was what Curufinwë was trying to decide. In the end he shook his head. "No. Not yet. But it most assuredly will before we set out to the river." He turned to glance at Laiquisyar as he took up one of the chairs, folding it and resting it on top of one of the crates. "Or mayhap not. It is but a guess on my part, but see to it that they are told to await our summons and not to come here just yet, though you may return here unless Makalaurë bids you otherwise."

Laiquisyar bowed his head, ducking out of the tent without a single word and with only a passing glance at Curufinwë's Second. Ingólemo looked quickly from the Elf-lord to his liege and back again before giving a brief but courteous bow to Curufinwë and turning to follow Laiquisyar, pushing a flap aside.

Curufinwë bit off a muffled oath. "Stay, Ingólemo!" he called out a tad incredulously. His Second halted in his steps, turning around and Curufinwë stared at him in something of amused exasperation. "By Aulë, you act as though you await the sting of a hornet."

Ingólemo shrugged. "As you will," he uttered softly as he meandered further in.

Curufinwë sighed at the passive response, bowing his head as he felt a brief churning of shame. "Forgive me," he uttered back, and he meant it. "I imagine I have been less than reputable this past fortnight."

"Well truthfully, you have been as pleasant as a hound with a ferocious hair up its rear." Ingólemo shrugged again, reaching up to massage the back of his neck. "But no one can really blame you."

Curufinwë stared at him for a long moment. He snorted, making a face as he moved to the next chair. "There are times I really wonder why I elected you as my Second."

"My apologies."

Curufinwë tossed the folded chair next to the other one as he felt a flare of impatience. It landed with a clatter on the wooden crate, but he ignored it, moving to the table to lean on its edge. He sighed again. Now to wait. Nothing left to do but wait. Always waiting. He leaned further against the table, bowing his head and running a hand roughly over his face. He just had to hold his temper. To center himself and focus on the matter at hand, at least to a good enough restraint so that the mere sight of Makalaurë would not affect his tongue. Maitimo would not have wanted it.

Curufinwë closed his eyes tight, dropping his head to cover them with his hand. Curse it all. Just all of it.

The sudden hand on his shoulder almost startled him. He opened his eyes and lifted them up and over to look at Ingólemo, who had come closer on silent feet and, even under the bright gaze of his liege, did not remove his strong hand from Curufinwë's shoulder. The commiseration in Ingólemo's eyes as he continued to just stare at him was too much and Curufinwë was hard pressed to not turn his own eyes away. He nodded in response, drawing in another deep breath as he forced himself and his short rein on his temper to simmer down. The breath came out shuddering, but he felt calmer. A little. He patted the hand on his shoulder and Ingólemo gave him a solid squeeze before removing it.

"Is there anything I can do, my liege?" he asked.

"That is the very question on every person's lips, I think." Glancing at Ingólemo, he finally took notice of his Second's garb and his brow creased in mild perplexity. Ingólemo was wholly attired in a hunter's apparel, hues of various greens and greys, but the studious Elf was no hunter. Curufinwë questioned if Ingólemo even knew the finer points of the activity. His suspicion grew. "Were you hunting?"

Ingólemo looked befuddled by the random question, but before he could answer there was a hustle outside and then the flaps of the command tent were shoved apart as Tyelkormo entered. Curufinwë straightened at the sight of him, gesturing Ingólemo away and his Second moved to return to his position at the tent's entrance. Curufinwë perused his brother up and down in mild interest. Tyelkormo looked as though he had dismounted from his steed and, without pause, marched straight to the command tent because his half-armor was still donned and his shoulders firmly mantled with his cloak of mottled green. Every part of him was ridden heavily in the dust of travel, from the staves of the tauriyavan-bow slung across his back to the leather of his boots to the very crevices in his sword's hilt. Even his hair was windswept, crusts of the steppe dust visibly embedded in the roots of the thick tresses. Curufinwë twisted his jaw. He would certainly have a merry time bathing later.

But the look in Tyelkormo's face distracted Curufinwë from the story the rest of his appearance told. His brother was as weary as Curufinwë had rarely seen him before, but even that blatant exhaustion could not stand against the look in his eyes at all.

Curufinwë swallowed, feeling like a rock was being forced down his throat. "I dread the look on your face."

Tyelkormo looked at him in fatigue, slowly sighing as his expression morphed into one of utter bleakness. He mirrored Curufinwë's earlier action and ran both gloved hands over his face in stiff swipes. "Damn it, Curvo," he muttered weakly.

Curufinwë closed his eyes at the hopeless lilt in his voice, dread smothering him in the way that hurt. Badly. He had to force himself to say it, force it pass the tightness that was closing up his throat. "He is gone, then?"

Tyelkormo released a harsh breath. "Gone, but not dead."

Curufinwë's eyes snapped open and over. "What?"

Tyelkormo nodded, lips pressing into a thin line. "Yes." He then launched without pause into one of the longest recitation of events Curufinwë had ever heard him speak. Not too long after he began relaying everything to have happened, Huan came trailing in through the tent entrance, his pelt just as dust-ridden as his master. The hound looked the very picture of despondency with his head lowered and tail drooped, moving one paw forward after the other. And he appeared just as fatigued. Tyelkormo gave him an absent ruffle on his head as he passed, not slowing in his account. Huan detoured towards Curufinwë to briefly rear up on his hind legs and rest his front feet on Curufinwë's thighs, leaving faint paw prints behind. Curufinwë only just caught himself from buckling under the sudden weight, enraptured by what Tyelkormo was saying. Huan moved on to crawl under the table and lie down, folding his paws in front of him and resting his head on top of them. He huffed, his dark eyes moving back and forth between his master and the other Elves occupying the tent.

But Curufinwë could barely take any notice of Huan. The blood drained from his face as he listened to everything Tyelkormo had to say, paling further at the description of the dead, and he was certain he had forgotten how to breathe by the time his older brother ended his account. "The mound was quick to burn, faster than I predicted," Tyelkormo began to finish. He had gone to lean against the crates or maybe even sit on them but was evidently too wound up with the anxiety that was quite visible in his face to relax even that much. He stood, continuing to pace back and forth, arms folded stiffly across his chest. Huan had not so much as even twitched his tail, though his eyes continued to unerringly follow his master around the tent. "Though that should have not been a wonder. The bodies were drier than the deadest of wood. Makalaurë is seeing to the shields being stored away on a cart at the moment. I know he means for us to bury them, but he has yet to disclose just how we are to go about doing that."

Curufinwë was incredulous. "But what happened with Maitimo?" he nearly shouted. "What is this you say, that he was not there?"

Tyelkormo hesitated, though in that brief duration and as if summoned by the mention of his name, Makalaurë then entered the command tent. Unlike Tyelkormo, he had doffed his armor and arms, save for the long dirk at his hip. But by the filth visible on his dark jerkin and leggings, he had not cleaned the dust of their journey from himself and his hair was also crusted with it, the strands nearly having fallen completely loose from their plait. But whereas the apprehension was strong and raw in Tyelkormo's face, Makalaurë's own countenance was worn, as though he had walked a hundred leagues. His grey eyes looked haunted and the ominous flickering of the candlelight did not improve the look on his face, which was carefully empty of even the slightest thought.

But Curufinwë barely allotted a moment for that observation to filter through his brain. "What happened?" he demanded.

Makalaurë held up his hand, stepping further into the interior. He did not look at Curufinwë. Did not speak.

Curufinwë frowned, the sense of panic rising. "Maka–"

Makalaurë held up the same hand again and Curufinwë snapped his mouth shut. He watched in rather awkward silence as Makalaurë bypassed him completely and walked to the far end of the table where little of the candlelight beat back the shadows. He leaned on the unvarnished wood with both hands, which were also caked with filth Curufinwë now noticed, and he bowed his head, the loose strands of dark hair almost entirely curtaining off what little was visible of his expression.

Curufinwë frowned at him and turned back to Tyelkormo, the question clear in his eyes.

Tyelkormo was watching Makalaurë, but at Curufinwë's near glare he shrugged. "Do not look at me. He was silent the whole journey back. Most were." He rolled his shoulders, as if trying to shrug off the dark pall that was determinedly settling on him. "We need a plan, but we were anxious to return home with all haste. Needed to return home first."

Curufinwë started to speak, but there was another rising of noise and murmuring voices outside the tent and then Elves were filtering in. They had clearly been following in Makalaurë's wake and Curufinwë thought for a moment that Laiquisyar had indeed convoked the Council. But after a moment of seeing those who ducked inside the tent, it was clear he had not, though the Elf-lord was also present. Vëantur, Yánadur, Carnistir and the twins, several Captains and all of their Seconds. Along with Laiquisyar, only a few from the remainder of the Host also entered the pavilion, but Curufinwë was grateful that the total ended there. Fionildo was not present, but Curufinwë supposed he was off to confer with Menelluin and to once again organize the transfer of any wounded across the river, which had risen a substantial bit after the storm.

In a matter of moments the tent was crowded with the near score of Elves. No Council had been convoked, but Valar, it seemed they had all simultaneously had the idea to migrate here immediately. Unless they were here by Makalaurë's order, who had not shifted in the slightest from his position at the table.

Curufinwë glanced at Makalaurë.

Still ignoring them.

The burning anger began to surface but Curufinwë forcefully shoved it down, turning away. Maitimo would not want it.

The Elves were talking quietly, though all of their voices were laced with anxiety and Laiquisyar meaningfully lifted his head. "What is this?" he called to no one in particular. His eyes were bright but hard with consternation. "Word already runs rampant throughout the encampment. What happened?"

The low din of conversation died away completely and Yánadur sighed wearily. "They were all slain, Laiquisyar," he answered, his voice equally tired. "If it is already told among the Host I will spare you the details, but Prince Maitimo was not among them."

Laiquisyar visibly paled in the dim lighting. "Taken?"

"Was I not clear enough?"

"I –"

"Do not even think to stoop to bickering right now, my lords," Tyelkormo interjected rather vehemently. He had finally ended his pacing, though it was unknown whether it was because he now had no decent space to pace or because the presence of other people had forced him to collect himself if only for dignity alone. "We must plan and truly have not a moment to spare to do so. There is no time for such frivolity, so take any unneeded speech to the solitude of your homes. Our course of action needs to be decided upon quickly."

"And faster still," Vëantur added as he took advantage of the proffered respite and leaned against one of the crates. He also had foregone doffing his armor, but there was no shield slung across his back. He appeared to have removed everything save for his sword. "I foresee those who marched under Prince Maitimo's banner congregating before long to demand answers or some direction on what they are to do. They will not content themselves for long to being kept in the dark."

"He is just gone?" asked one of the masters of trade, his face a combination of disbelief and apprehension. "Nothing was left behind? No message?"

"Tyelkormo and I left not one breadth of the battleground unsearched," said Carnistir. He too stood with a stillness, but even his brothers could decry the abnormality of it. His expression was worn but dark, and the tension in his frame was so prominent that he looked to be only one incentive away from bursting out with all the agitation that lined his body. He met the gazes of many Elves, his eyes bright yet dimmed at the same time. "Every Orc carcass was overturned and my hands still carry the stench of their decay from how many I threw aside. His sword is missing too, but his helm and shield were found, both rent with the blows of weapons, and both with their fasteners broken where they were anchored to the steel." Many weighty looks were passed at that description, but Carnistir proceeded on. "Tyelkormo put his every talent through the fire and the scouts with him, but any hint of a trail has gone cold. Not even Huan could detect one. Nothing was found, no matter the number of torches we lit."

"How much time do we have to assemble?" Vëantur interjected, his brow creased in sharp concentration as he looked between several of them. "Because those who just returned with us will need to rest at least a day, if not more. I made the journey on horseback and even I am wearied."

Tyelkormo nodded. "Those things will be accounted for, but we need –"

"Stop."

As quietly as the word was spoken, the sheer unexpectedness of it caught most of them off guard and all eyes were fast to snap over to Makalaurë. He had remained so unnoticed and silent that it was apparent many had forgotten that he was even in the pavilion. He had not removed himself from beside the table, had not even looked up as he uttered the one word, but there was a tautness to his shoulders that had not been there before.

Tyelkormo glanced sidelong at the others, a slight frown creasing his forehead. "Stop what?"

Makalaurë took a deep breath, straightening from his lean against the table and sweeping back the fallen strands of hair behind his ears. He looked an utter mess and his face was a raw reflection of it, streaked on one cheekbone with faint smudges of dirt and the delicate structure of his complexion paler than it should have been. He turned towards the others, finally lifting his eyes to glance around at them all and settling his worn gaze on Tyelkormo. "Stop planning. No one is going after him."

A profound silence met the words. Makalaurë did not say any more, but he refused to turn his eyes away from Tyelkormo's. He could feel the gazes of the others burning into him, first in bemusement and surprise at his proclamation and then, once the meaning of what he said finally filtered through, in disbelief to utter shock. The weight of their voiceless regard grew with each passing heartbeat, but Makalaurë could not turn to them, or to his brothers. Could not take it right now. Not that looking into Tyelkormo's face was any better.

Valar, looking into Tyelkormo's face had to be the worst.

He could see the process of Tyelkormo's thoughts in his eyes, in the minute changes of his expression, all of which transitioned from bewilderment to a raging disbelief in the space of two breaths. He blinked, his brow slightly creasing as he stared at Makalaurë in barely concealed incredulity. "What?" he demanded in a rising voice.

"You heard me."

Another silence. A longer silence. No one moved, but Makalaurë kept his eyes trained on Tyelkormo. He could sense Carnistir not too far from him, sensed the twins, sensed Curufinwë. But Valar, he could not look at them.

Tyelkormo's face then shuttered as he closed off what there was in his expression completely, rendering it utterly unreadable, even to Makalaurë. He turned towards the others in the tent, eyes quickly passing over each of the Elves. "Leave us. All of you. Out."

No one hesitated at the order. It seemed they might have even been grateful to be told to vacate the pavilion if how quickly they were moving to rush out said anything. The sons of Fëanáro remained within, but not even Yánadur or Vëantur nor any of their Seconds dared to approach them. Vëantur, on his part, was urging the Elves forward once clear of the command tent. Though some continued walking into the surrounding barrage of lodgings, most probably to their own shelters, several simply stopped within the green, appearing ready to wait for however long their lords required. But Vëantur shoved two of the Captains forward, both who stumbled at the viciousness of the push.

"Keep walking!" he commanded through gritted teeth in barely concealed anger. His eyebrows were drawn and he looked on the verge of yelling. "We do not need to hear this and the Valar know that there will be shouting."

One of the Captains hesitated and several of the Seconds mirrored him. "But what if they –"

"No, keep moving!" Vëantur pushed them along again and Yánadur beside him echoed his vehemence, gesturing them away impatiently. "You can guess what will ensue and what they will say is not for our ears to hear. So move!"


	15. Forgive me, Nelyo

Name Index:  
Findekáno = Fingon

* * *

 **Chapter 15:  
Forgive me, Nelyo.**

"Very well," Tyelkormo said after a pregnant pause, a forced calm in his voice. Though it did not stop the stiff, almost agitated set from lining every part of his body as he practically glared at Makalaurë. "I have been accused many times of being too hasty in my judgments. Told so by Atar. By Maitimo. I am listening. So speak!"

Makalaurë canted an eyebrow at the bark, barely suppressing a sigh at the oppressive weight that abruptly settled over him. The presences of his brothers in the emptiness of the pavilion was so domineering that the space suddenly felt more suffocating than it had just moments ago with a score of people crowded inside. But now they were alone and with the silent regard of five gazes drilling into him, Makalaurë closed his eyes in impending dread, briefly turning away as he tried to gather himself. He swallowed thickly, absently combing more loose hairs behind his ears and he momentarily felt the overwhelming desire to find a stream and scrub off the grime and filth from his face and neck. But he drew in a deep breath as he forced himself to meet that piercing gaze of each of his brothers. He could feel the storm brewing in Carnistir, the mind of Curufinwë starting to churn away, though his arms were crossed and he was inconspicuously drumming his fingers against one elbow, and the twins just looked so utterly confounded, as if the significance of what he just said was still in the middle of being processed.

But it was Tyelkormo who currently robbed his attention. He was not pacing back and forth as Makalaurë knew he always did when agitated, but his bright eyes were narrowed, his expression darkening into something increasingly livid. His fingers twitched at his side and Makalaurë's eyes flicked to them, supposing it was either an involuntary response to his visibly amassing indignation or because he was restraining himself from the desire to do something to Makalaurë with said fingers.

He returned his gaze to Tyelkormo's. Calm indeed.

He shook his head at him, swallowing again. "You are not," he finally muttered. "Pray listen to me, Turko. Do not put me to my knees to beg that you do."

The words seemed to poke at his agitation more and Tyelkormo turned away with a sharp exhalation of air, running both hands over his face a few times as though trying to wipe it away. The tension is his broad shoulders did not lessen, but he was trying. Makalaurë had to credit him that much.

"When was this decision made?" Carnistir demanded. His face was dark, the storm of emotions clearly accumulating fast into a tempest, but beneath it all Makalaurë could see the buds of anxiety and it was the reason why it was now difficult to look him in the eye. That and the broiling anger that shined bright in them, but Makalaurë forced himself to. "Amid your silent vigil back to the encampment when you deigned not one of us with any talk concerning this?"

The derision in his voice was thick and Makalaurë bit his tongue to stop the words that sprang to his lips. He nodded, resolutely silent.

Carnistir made a face, glowering at him. "Well, then. I simply thought you sought to honor the fallen with your silence, but thank you kindly for including us in this fairly important decision for our brother!"

"Carnistir," Tyelkormo warned, though he only spared him a brief glance. His intense stare was trained unwaveringly on Makalaurë and it was apparent that his hold on the few remaining shreds of his composure was slipping. Tyelkormo slowly shook his head at him. "Just explain yourself, Káno. And do not dally with us, for I know I at least do not have any patience for it."

Makalaurë glanced away with a soft sigh, his shoulders sagging. "Need I really explain this, Tyelko? I should think not. Pray enlighten me just how we might go after him with any hope of success? How? Ever since Atar's death it was emphasized again and again – by all of us, I should add – that Moringotto has repelled us to the bottom of the hill. How it is now all uphill from here. Yes, this whole ruse was a ruse indeed. As if it is one point of interest we need to question any longer. But do I need to echo the words spoken by each of you in the fissure that day?" He looked desperately between all of them. "Recall you not everything you voiced during that council?"

"I recall it well enough," Tyelkormo bit out. His face was still hard and his jaw was set. "And so? What? We will do nothing?"

"Do you not hear me, Tyelkormo?" he stressed, his brow creasing. "There is literally nothing we can do. Our lack of knowledge is now crippling and will be only worse if we go to actually act on it. You heard me in the fissure, remember? I told Maitimo – _stressed_ to him that though we came in all readiness to face Moringotto, we had no expectation to be met with a host of Maiar as well. You know this," he further stressed, the rawness of his voice growing. He was nearly pleading with them but could not find it within himself to care how it sounded. "We still do not know how to slay those Valaraukar. We still do not know if Moringotto has more of the ilk of that Orc-speaker at his command, and how many if so. We still do not know what in the name of the Valar even happened to result in all of Maitimo's delegation being slaughtered when he was so accursedly vigilant. And we especially still do not know why Moringotto had not just slain him as well. Why he sought to lure us deep into those forsaken steppes in the first place." He glanced at each of them, gaze growing more intense as the initial waves of apprehension started to flood him. He absently realized his breath was beginning to come fast and he had not even been shouting. "Can _any_ of you shine light on but one of those questions?" The silence persisted and when it was clear no answer was forthcoming, Makalaurë sighed a little. "See you not, brothers of mine?" he went on, though his tone was quieter and softer. "Yes, rouse the Noldohossë, but at what cost?"

Tyelkormo's expression had not shifted, his eyes growing brighter. "What I see is a decision built with the cold framework of logic."

Makalaurë glared at him, only just managing to keep the incredulity out of his face. "Logic cannot exactly be refuted here, Tyelkormo. How can –"

"And I did not say so," he countered more vehemently, his expression darkening. "But logic reduces all things into strict compliance with our limitations and incapacities. Those things, not our strengths. You cannot stand there and suddenly say that logic prevails when all the feats the Noldor have achieved thus far have been done because of our strengths, not by any lick of logic."

"He is still right, Turko," Curufinwë interjected somewhat solemnly. Makalaurë turned to him in no little surprise, taken aback by the unseen support from the one he had expected to tear apart his argument with his own unflustered brand of logic. "That much at least we cannot deny."

Tyelkormo was silent. He stared at him, his expression transmuting into one of disbelief.

The look Carnistir leveled on Curufinwë was just as penetrating. "Some high words coming from you," he nearly scoffed. "Do you rescind the rant you unleashed on both him and Maitimo before he marched from the mountains? We heard you on both occasions, Curufinwë."

Curufinwë regarded him flatly. "Spare my ears the sarcasm. I agree with what Makalaurë says, but it does not mean that my heart does not scream otherwise. But really, Carnistir, how do you deny it? How can you? You as well, Turko. Makalaurë is correct and you know it."

"How do we deny it?" Tyelkormo's eyebrows hiked up in what was either incredulity or a challenge, or maybe both, but any calm he had committed to his voice was quickly waning. "Because I go to actually bend my thoughts to Maitimo. That is how!" He snapped his gaze back to Makalaurë, his expression beginning to transfigure into something more distressed. "By the Valar, Makalaurë," he softly cursed, a clear lilt of what was definitely incredulity in his tone. "Where comes this audacity to stand there before us and of your own insight declare we are decided by this actionless course? With no consultation with any of us beforehand, I might add? For the Noldor right now, yes, that much I yield. But what about Maitimo?" he insisted harshly. "Will you not lend him the same courtesy as you do to the Host? No drear matter lies before us of reclaiming his body as we did for those three score Elves, Káno! Maitimo is still alive. By some cursed blessing, alive! And most assuredly must he wonder even now where in all of Arda we are, how far and how near. Just how would you feel?"

Makalaurë flinched at the demand, his throat closing up at the conviction in Tyelkormo's voice. Tyelkormo glared at him with so much fire and anger and he would dare say trepidation that Makalaurë turned his eyes away and down, finding the tip of Huan's tail suddenly riveting from where it peaked out from beneath the table. His very fëa quailed at the images Tyelkormo's barrage of words provoked, but he viciously shoved them aside, feeling his legs weaken in the brief time it took to do so. He only just stopped himself from reaching out to catch himself against the table. He masked off his expression, or tried to. But he wondered why he even bothered. His brothers could see through him just as easily as Maitimo could.

He gathered his wits, what remained of them, but he could not bring himself to look back at Tyelkormo. "Ice may be warm in the face of logic, Tyelkormo, yes. But I cannot now discount the importance of it. Not now, not when most especially I would rather the wisdom for this not result from folly."

"Does it even matter?" Carnistir's brows were deeply drawn together and he looked at Makalaurë in no little disquiet, shaking his head. "Do you blind yourself to the gravity of just what you say? For truly, brother, does the wellbeing of the Noldohossë you preach even matter for the coming years? Folly or not, wisdom or not, how can a decision like this amount to anything beneficial for the impending age of our people? We cannot do this without Nelyo, Káno. Valar, you know we cannot!"

Makalaurë did not need to ask what he warned of. He knew. They all knew, and the knot in both his chest and stomach twisted all over again as they had on multiple occasions before at what Maitimo's absence truly meant for the Host if they did not win him back. "I know," Makalaurë conceded quietly, his eyes dark. "The Valar help me, I know. But it is as I told you atop that crag in the mountains, Moryo. Moringotto is presently the blade at our necks, its whetted edge only now more keen. He trapped Maitimo. Trapped us all. And surely would he go with gladness to trap us again if we hasten after Maitimo to save him. It is of that folly I speak!" he added with a sharp glance at Tyelkormo.

"Moringotto probably expects us to muster the Noldohossë in answer to this, as it is." Curufinwë exchanged a bitter look from Makalaurë to Carnistir before turning his grudging gaze somewhere off to his right. "Doubtlessly preparing for it and designing anew some fell snare for us to blunder into because of our haste."

Makalaurë nodded, the set of his mouth twisting in reluctance. "He anticipated us to accept his parley, mayhap even knew we would. No hope lies with us to play so blithely with his manipulations when still so blinded."

"Fine!" Tyelkormo nearly yelled. He finally started to pace, his face only contorting into something more anxious. "Let us end this dallying then and cast off this blindness! Let us learn everything we need to know. Learn the land. The Enemy. The tactics he has so far devised. Valar, did we not come to Endórë for that very purpose?"

"Yes, Turko, but it is not so simple." Makalaurë sighed, wetting his lips. "We cannot search for him and work to conquer our ignorance at the same time. Moringotto has the upper hand knowing these lands while we do not."

"Yes, we do not know these lands." Tyelkormo stepped closer. "But Makalaurë, we knew them even less when Moringotto assaulted us here in the Grey Fields and our ignorance of Endórë certainly had not impeded our victory of that battle. We survived it, made those numberless Orcs tremble to the brink until they literally fled from us back over the mountains! They fled! Even those Valaraukar fled from us! I know not the number of blows Atar dealt to those beasts of flame, but clearly a number worth reckoning, for they fled at the sight of us when we hastened to Atar's side. Fled just as the Orcs had! By Aulë, we were more blind than we are now and Moringotto was the one to look the fool for assaulting us, for all that his hordes had been so great and the Host so taken unawares."

"Yet Maitimo was just as blind marching to the appointed place, and look at the result it granted him and the sixty Noldor now blowing across the steppes as common dust atop a mantle," Makalaurë countered painfully. "We won that battle because Moringotto underestimated us, something he clearly remedied when he designed to trap Maitimo. We cannot trust he will make the same mistake twice. Not when he is smarter than that. Not when he now has the upper hand in truth. We wondered if it was Atar's death that made us believe Moringotto gained the upper hand, but he truly has it now. We cannot in turn underestimate him, which is precisely what we shall do if we muster the Noldohossë and ride out posthaste unto the Enemy's lair."

"So let us then hasten to learn!" Tyelkormo urged desperately. "The faster we do, the faster we may conceive a design to find Maitimo and bring him home."

"We cannot, Tyelkormo!" he urged just as frantically. "Valar, pray just think about it! Not even Atar sought to march unto Moringotto's Dwelling during our whole crossing of Hísilómë. Never even considered it! You know Atar was correct in that the Noldor need to first fortify an encampment." He gestured wildly. "Valar, that was what we were in the middle of doing when Moringotto assaulted us! And we still have yet to do it. Even Maitimo emphasized the need to fortify ourselves during that council in the fissure. We cannot just toss these things both Atar and Maitimo have said to the wind! Going far and abroad so recklessly across the unknown wilds of Endórë as would be demanded of the Noldohossë will most assuredly thwart the counsel of them both."

Curufinwë's gaze snapped over to him. "We will not even search?" he demanded in ringing disbelief, and even the twins were staring at Makalaurë with eyes slightly widened and burning with open surprise. "I thought you but spoke of sending the Noldohossë beyond the mountains to march upon the Enemy, but you speak of relinquishing us to idleness completely? To not even search for him? Valar, Makalaurë, Maitimo surely must expect for us to do that much!"

"You said it yourself, Curvo." Makalaurë swiveled from Tyelkormo to him. "We must assume Moringotto plans for us to. As if searching for him is any different from leading the Noldohossë in his wake. The North is Moringotto's realm and those vast steppes and whatever wastelands that lie beyond are his forecourt. Have you closed your ears to all I have said? Or have you by a miracle grown learnt in the ways of that wide wilderness as to know where he has cordoned it off or left it free? He might set snare after snare upon our search of that unknown place to render the Noldohossë dead without one of us being the wiser. Unless he would seek to take us captive as well. But to see ourselves killed or captured, how would either be helping Maitimo?"

The skepticism grew. "And pray tell how we would help him by remaining idle?" Curufinwë challenged. "Over a month has passed, Makalaurë. A month, and by now he must be ensconced in Moringotto's Dwelling. There is no time to even stall, but now you would have us do nothing at all?"

"You truly intend to just abandon him to the mercy of Moringotto?" Carnistir added before Makalaurë could reply.

Makalaurë snuffed the desire to retreat back a step as he looked between the two. "I told you –"

"And we heard you," Tyelkormo barked angrily. "But stop your vindicating and just turn your thought to Maitimo for one damned moment!" He spun away stiffly as he ran corded fingers through his hair, the tension in his frame so pronounced that he nearly pulled at the strands in the process. But he turned around just as quickly and Makalaurë suspected he restrained the might of his voice by willpower alone. Makalaurë gnawed at his lip, going still as he silently watched Tyelkormo gather himself. And Tyelkormo drew in a deep breath, as though in attempt to calm himself, but the intensity of his gaze did not lessen and his gestures only grew more aggravated.

"To echo Curufinwë," he said, "why do you harden your heart against the plight of your very brother? A month, Káno. Over a month! And Valar, it is only by assumption that we say he is now housed in Moringotto's Dwelling. He could be anywhere! And thus have we all the more motivation to search abroad! Yes, sound reason is often garnered only through being heartless, but how can you not envision this through Maitimo's eyes?" He worried his brow and could not seem to keep the pleading from his face. "Really Makalaurë, how would you feel in his place to hear the words coming from your mouth? How far must this go until this logic is deemed illogical? Until it is heartless indeed? Must you be tokened with parts of his body or a message from Maitimo himself for this to become real? He is alive, brother! And do you think Moringotto will permit him to remain in such a generous state for long? And if he does, what horror does that spell for Maitimo? He did not kill him with the rest of the Elves, Káno. He did not kill him, so why does he want him? Just think about it, Makalaurë!" Though his voice rose in desperation, disgust briefly flitted across his face. "Is this our show of gratitude to our eldest, forsaking him just because doing otherwise is perilous?"

"What would you have me do?" Makalaurë almost shouted hysterically. His breath came fast as he looked beseechingly between all of his brothers. "You act as though many choices lie before me, but the few choices we do have offer no hope of success and threaten the wellbeing and very lives of the Noldor and ours!"

Tyelkormo scowled. "And you would not risk that much to save him?"

Makalaurë flinched, recoiling from him. "Put no words in my mouth, Turko. I said no such thing!"

"You may as well have." Tyelkormo cocked his head, eyes narrowing in mild contemplation. "Believe you that the Host will be receptive of this?" Makalaurë paled at the implication and Tyelkormo slowly nodded, a knowing look entering his eye. "You did not consider that, did you? Not even Vëantur hesitated to believe we would go after him, and you know the guilt he shoulders. You may tell us to forsake our brother, but to the Noldor you will be commanding them to abandon their _king_. Noldóran uncrowned, yes, but all know he was Noldóran come Atar's last breath. And this is no recurrence of Atar's end. The Noldor have not lost a third king because their third king is still alive, damn you!" His voice was ragged and he paused again in a clear effort to calm himself. Every muscle in his body looked to have coiled tight and his eyebrows drew down further as he briefly looked away. When he turned back he was calmer, but his expression was still set with anger and the beginning glimpses of disdain. "Fealty is like gold," Tyelkormo went on, his voice quieter and solemnly deep. "It is like gold – only refined of all its dross when put through the hottest fire to expose the true amount of purity and value it can claim."

A shiver raced down Makalaurë's spine, the blood draining from his face and he shook his head at Tyelkormo. "Do not," he gritted out, nearly choking on the words.

"Why not?" Tyelkormo's glare grew sharper, and by the keen look in his eyes, he knew well the effect the words had on Makalaurë. "Maitimo spoke so to Findekáno to explain why we swore Atar's Oath as readily as we did. Are his words any less applicable here? Will you tell the Host that their fealty to the Noldóran, to Atar and now Maitimo only matters when it is not dangerous to pledge it? These are the times when fealty is proven! Or is there no valiant left in this valiant people? But no, go forth and speak that loyalty means naught when it now counts the most. The same loyalty that sent those three score Noldor to their deaths because they committed themselves to safeguarding Maitimo. And you intend now to honor their passing, but forsake the cause they died for? Take up their arms, bury their shields! Why do you not just bury Maitimo's banner with them?"

"Enough!" Makalaurë nearly screamed. He stared aghast at Tyelkormo, brow crinkling in disbelief. "That is enough!"

"Evidently not! He is your own damned brother, Káno. The only one of us who held you as a babe! How can you stand there and justify wholly forsaking him? I hear you, but what I go to impress upon your obstinate mind has nothing to do with the Host. Valiant deeds are not bent from cowering hearts, and all I see before my eyes is Maitimo's face as he waits and waits for even the smallest of signs from us as Moringotto subjects him to only the Valar know what. But no! Let us just go on our merry way, proceed onward as though nothing has happened. As though Atar was not slain and our brother taken captive by the very foe we swore war upon. Let us bear in silence the loathing that those who marched under Maitimo's banner will harbor for us, as well as those who migrated to his laurel branch after the death of our sire. Let us lead on the Host as they have been led since came we into Hísilómë when none of us have the insight demanded to see it done, when none of us lived the courts more than the seasons bidden to all scions of the king. For Valar, not one of us can claim the depth of Atar's or Maitimo's knowledge of standing at the head of a people and you know it! But no, let us go about our daily labor and feign blissful ignorance of our brother's plight day by day because none of it matters when to save him potentially means peril for us! Just embrace cowardice, forfeit the bonds of family! Whichever makes the living of our lives now safer!"

By the end of it all, his voice had risen to a shout and he was heaving for air, his eyes shining with the glinting of unshed tears, and by the contorting of Tyelkormo's expression it looked like it would not take much more provocation to send them falling. But the smoldering anger shone bright behind the moisture and Makalaurë was shaking when silence finally fell. Shaking hard. He had a white-knuckled grip on the edge of the table behind him and his heart raced fiercely against his ribcage. His eyebrows drew down as he clenched his jaw, his throat closing up all over again.

"I do not shut my heart from him, Turko," he finally forced out. "Be you ashamed if you think otherwise. Do you honestly believe I do not want to tear down every mountain from here to Thangorodrim? To not leave one stone unturned until Maitimo might be found?"

"Then do it!" Tyelkormo urged with a vicious gesture of his hand. He did not strike Makalaurë, but the tension was building so great in him that Makalaurë wondered if he actually would. "He is not just our new king, but our brother. Of all he has done for us the entirety of our lives since before we could walk, of all we owe him and that we could never repay – when he now needs us the most, we are to turn our backs? To sweep him off like dust from our shoulder? Why?" he beseeched roughly. His left hand clenched and unclenched the hilt of his sword and his right hand looked even closer to finally taking hold of Makalaurë. "Valar, Makalaurë! We supported him in his decision to march to the appointed place. We supported him!"

"I know we did!" Makalaurë bit back the shout, belatedly realizing just how loud his voice had risen and he prayed that their discourse was unheard beyond the green of the command tent. He bit the side of his tongue and waited until the pain gradually lessened the intensity that was making his head spin. He looked back at Tyelkormo, a massive sense of weariness settling over him. "I did also," he reminded in a far calmer tone. "But to commit the Noldohossë to this venture as blind as we are would be their bane, and in more than one way. We prepared ourselves for our lives to become the embodiment of risk when we flew from Eldamar, but some risks are too great. To march now unto Moringotto's Dwelling blind to it as we are would cost many of their lives. Too many. We might as well freely offer their necks before the wolf's teeth for all the triumph we will have."

"Then I will go," Tyelkormo suggested urgently, and he stepped closer as he visibly warmed to the idea. "Yes, let not the Noldohossë be jeopardized in such a fashion, but you can send me. Send any of us. Send Vëantur with me or any select few that we might glean what has become of Maitimo and devise a way to deliver him."

Makalaurë's eyes widened in abject disbelief. His eyebrows drew together as he shook his head at Tyelkormo. "Do you even hear yourself, Turko? How daft is your mind or inflated your ego to think you can overcome Moringotto's Dwelling? That it can be infiltrated by one person when we know nothing of its layout? Let alone then find Maitimo and actually escape with him? And here you treat me as the fool? As you keep emphasizing, we came to Endórë to combat Moringotto. But even before leaving Valinor we knew an army was needed to storm whatever battlement Moringotto fashioned for himself. Why think you Atar sought with such fervency to encourage our people to fly from Eldamar with him, whether by vengeance for Anatar's slaying or thirst for these starlit lands? Even Atar knew we could not hope to accomplish this alone."

Tyelkormo glared, twisting his jaw as he glanced away. "At least we would not be resorting him to a lack of action on our part, no matter the time it would take."

Makalaurë's gaze softened at the muttered words. "And you think Maitimo would want that?" he prodded quietly. "For his brothers to kill themselves by committing the same blunder as he? To walk uphill into a strange and uncharted territory just as naively? I know we wandered Hísilómë with such blindness and were hindered with it when Moringotto assaulted us, and that we were victorious on both accounts. But I am done construing our chances of triumph based on our success thus far. Done. Because, by the Valar, we most certainly decided wrongly where this parley was concerned. Truly Tyelkormo, do you believe Maitimo would want us to be so foolish?"

" _Truly_ , Makalaurë, I can little guess any of his thoughts right now. By the stars, Káno, you sound like a mouthpiece of the Valar. You say you do not shut your heart to Maitimo, yet you are! Has the reality of this not yet pierced through whatever stone wall you erected? Moringotto has Maitimo in his hands, _his very hands_ , and my fëa wails with every occasion I venture to imagine just what Maitimo must be thinking during every moment of every day. What he must _want_. How he must feel. How terrified he – I can only fathom what awaits –" The fragmented words broke off entirely as his voice began to quiver, despite all the anger still lacing it. He turned away completely and looked on the verge of storming out of the pavilion, but after taking a few steps he spun back and rushed forward closer than before, the anger receding and resurging like a tide. "Speak what you will, Makalaurë, and order what you must, but say not that you do not harden your heart against him."

Makalaurë's face crumbled. "Tyel–" His voice cracked and he turned his eyes down, wincing as he worried his fingers against the wood of the table until the skin tore against the grains. He looked back at Tyelkormo, his face suppliant. "Twice in the fissure he bid me not to fail our sire, Turko. Twice over, and I cannot forget it."

"No, not fail, just honor Atar by abandoning his firstborn."

A spike of anger surged through him. "I have taken your tongue, but I will not suffer your mockery, Tyelkormo. I have no intention of failing Atar now."

Tyelkormo nodded, disdain shadowing his face. "No. Just Maitimo." He whipped around and stormed towards the entrance of the tent but again turned back, a fire in his eyes. "If you go next, do not weep when we _must_ abandon you!"

He left the pavilion in a flurry of movement, the violent rustling of the flaps loud in the ensuing silence. Huan bounded up from his forgotten position beneath the table, trailing quickly after his master through the curtains of canvas. Makalaurë watched him leave, both of them, still and silent with not so much as a twitch in his expression. Several moments passed before he stirred himself, finally releasing his grip on the table's ledge. He distractedly flexed his fingers again and again, the pain of the cramps shooting up his forearm as he tore his attention away, nearly startling as his gaze alighted on his other brothers. They were all looking at him. He sighed, shifting on his feet as he felt a twinge of discomfort at their silent regard, but he forced his eyes up to find that their faces were just as raw with pain as much as Tyelkormo's had been.

The twins looked just as confused as they had at the start, but hopelessness was now more evident in their faces than ever. "Káno," Telufinwë intoned helplessly, "he is our brother."

"He is mine, too!" Makalaurë snapped, pain bursting in his chest. He rubbed at it with his fingers as he looked between them, misery clouding over his eyes. "He is mine, too. Stop forgetting that."

"So that is it, then." Curufinwë regarded Makalaurë with an air of finality. The anger was still prominent in him, especially in the set of his shoulders, but Makalaurë could not unsee the abject anguish in his eyes. He worked his jaw several times, fingers drumming harder on his crossed arms. "That is it. We made ourselves slayers of our kin and now forsakers of our kinsman."

Makalaurë gave a small shake of his head. "Not forsaking." Even to his own ears it sounded empty.

Curufinwë narrowed his eyes, canting his head to the side. "What do you call it?" he challenged with not a little contempt. "Particularly when you reduce us to true idleness in full? When there exists a chance Maitimo is actually waiting for us? What do you call it?" There was no answer and Curufinwë's frown deepened. "You cannot even say it," he muttered darkly, and he spun on his heel, moving with as much alacrity as Tyelkormo had towards the entrance. He came to a sudden stop before pushing through the slit, sighing as he bowed his head. "I hear what you say, Makalaurë," he said over his shoulder. "But I cannot look at you right now."

He left, the canvas fluttering briefly in the wind before it stilled. Makalaurë looked over at Carnistir, saw his stoic expression and nearly sighed as dreary resignation came over him. He wondered if he had anything left in him to now parry words from Carnistir. He looked at him in question anyway, raising an eyebrow almost daringly. "What?"

But Carnistir only shook his head, eyes clouded over with some internal inspection of whatever thoughts were going through his mind, appearing to truly have nothing additional to contribute to all that Tyelkormo and Curufinwë had already made vocal. He shrugged, avoiding Makalaurë's gaze. "Nothing. I just cannot help but wonder what Atar would say to you," he said softly, almost to himself.

It was like a knife, and Makalaurë stumbled back as his face crumbled further. "Do not say that."

Carnistir looked at him, eyes clearing as he seemed to take in Makalaurë's expression. "Why? Is the answer too painful? Even if none went with him, you know Atar would have torn down Moringotto's Dwelling stone by stone until he had Maitimo back." He shifted from his stance to move towards the entrance. Makalaurë reached out to grab him, but Carnistir wrenched his arms away. "Keep your hands off me!" He sidestepped Makalaurë and ducked through the flaps of the tent, his soft steps quickly fading away.

Makalaurë retreated back to his place by the table, unable to take his eyes away from the entrance and the pain in his chest grew sharper. He winced, rubbing at it harder and he turned to look at the twins as his breathing came faster. They both just stood there, but Makalaurë did not have the energy to interpret whatever bitter story might be in their expressions. He looked down at the ground, blinking furiously as strands of hair fell from behind his ears. "Go," he forced out in a harsh breath.

There was a pause, but he knew they were looking at each other. They always did.

One of them stepped forward. "Káno–"

"No, Pityo!" He grabbed the corner of the table, digging his nails into the rough wood. "I have not the heart to deal with two more of you."

"Káno, we were not–"

"Go!"

There was another pause, but Makalaurë closed his eyes tight. Soon enough, the sound of their soft imprints on the grass came and a further rustling of canvas. Silence fell. Not even a distant sound came from the green or beyond it, save for the gentle chirring of crickets. Makalaurë sank to his knees, collapsing the remaining half of the way as he leaned his shoulder against the leg of the table. His breaths were starting to come very fast and he could not slow them down. His chest was tight, pain still lancing through it and he doubled over when the tightness moved up to his throat.

"Orostámo!"

His frantic yell shattered the silence of the pavilion and a moment later there came the sound of running. But more than one pair of feet. He turned his eyes up just as the tent flaps were shoved aside. Orostámo and Yánadur entered, both coming to a halt when they saw him. Makalaurë could guess their thoughts, but he ignored the Lambengolmo completely, refusing to even glance at him, and looked up into Orostámo's worried face.

"Unfurl the banners and sound the trumpets." His voice was ragged and stiff and thick with the emotion that was trying to burst from him, but he swallowed it down. "Tell the Host to start moving. A more permanent layout of the encampment will be discussed after we cross the river."

Orostámo looked as though he wanted to say something. He even opened his mouth but hesitated and closed it a moment later, clearly wary of whatever it was he saw in Makalaurë's expression. He shifted on his feet, hands twitching at his sides, but he did nothing in the end. After a moment more of indecisive shifting of his feet, he gave Makalaurë a hasty bow and all but ran out of the tent.

Yánadur remained, however, and when Makalaurë chanced a glance at him the depth of compassion and worry in his face was so great that he had to look away. His eyes stung and he closed them again, his breath hitching. "Leave."

There was another heavy pause, Makalaurë's ears filled with the sound of his own harsh breathing. But then he felt a very hesitant hand brush his shoulder before it was laid down with more sureness to firmly clasp it. Makalaurë smacked it off, shoving his hand aside. "Leave!"

"Makalaurë–"

"Leave me, Yánadur!" he cried. "Just leave!"

Silence fell again, but it was not long before Makalaurë heard Yánadur's retreating footfalls and the flaps of the tent falling to a close once more.

Makalaurë gasped, choked sobs tearing from his throat and he doubled over further, eyes burning with welling tears. His hands rose from where they pressed against his chest to thread through his hair, nails digging into his scalp. He felt sick. Nauseated. Faint. And the feeling grew more intense the more his brothers' words circled again and again in his head, overlapping each other until it all became an incessant chirring of Quenya. He clasped his hair tighter in his fists, slow tears falling down his cheeks to leave streaks in the dust that matted his skin. He had made the right decision. It was the right decision. It had to be. Valar, it had to be. He could not fail him. Not Maitimo, not his father, nor Maitimo's bidding not to. It had to be the right decision. Valar, it just had to be. But Maitimo's face swam before his mind's eye, despair washing over him in thick waves when image after image began relentlessly swamping his mind as he envisioned against his will just what fate this truly spelled for his older brother if they did nothing to rescue him. The only brother who had been there as a steadfast presence since the beginning of his memory. His own brother, and now Moringotto had him. The very foe they swore war against had him. He had him.

The broken sobs came stronger and Makalaurë swayed at the full realization that watching Maitimo depart into the steppes from on top of the eastern ridge was most probably the last memory he would have of him. And Maitimo's last memory of them…that his brothers were not coming today, or tomorrow…that every day he would wait, enduring only the Valar knew what Moringotto would have him endure, and every day the nail of betrayal would be hammered in a little further….

Makalaurë bowed over, falling against the table leg as he wept, tearing at his hair and rocking back and forth as the ache in his chest grew.

He was abandoning his brother. Valar, he was abandoning his brother. Abandoning him to Moringotto's whim.

"Forgive me," he cried, his voice thick and trembling. "Nelyo, forgive me."


	16. A Talking Bat

Name Index:  
Kanafinwë = Maglor, his father-name

* * *

 **Chapter 16:  
A Talking Bat**

Yánadur was searching for Carnistir and he bit off a curse, annoyed by how spectacularly he was failing at it.

He reached out to a passing member of the King's Guard. "Know you the whereabouts of Prince Carnistir?"

The guard frowned, visibly harried by whatever task he was doing. He glanced towards the north, gesturing to one of the many copses of trees barely visible in the distance. "That way, last I saw, Commander. I do not know if he went elsewhere, though."

Yánadur sighed shortly, lips briefly pressing together as he looked in said direction. He nodded his gratitude to the guard, clasping his shoulder as he moved around him and quickened his pace across the field.

It was time for the rest of them to follow the Host across the North-river. Only a portion remained, the sons of Fëanáro among them, but Carnistir had gone unaccounted for in the last hour and Yánadur had been bidden in no uncertain terms to find him. Par Makalaurë's orders, the eight banners had been unfurled and Orostámo had blown the horns himself in a recognized pattern of high, keen notes. The Noldor had responded at once, chatter erupting across the fields as they finalized any and all of their arrangements for migrating. Yánadur had remained nearby the green of the pavilion to wait for Makalaurë to emerge from the command tent. It had not been until the hustling of the roused Host had risen to a clamor that Makalaurë had finally shown himself, shoving through the canvas flaps and bypassing Yánadur completely, not even sparing him a glance as he sped off to whatever destination he had in mind, his face utterly unreadable. Yánadur had watched him go, looking after him with an abject sigh.

Shortly after Makalaurë departed, Elves arrived to dismantle the command tent and store it and all its contents away. As was the wont of rousing the Host, it took hours to assemble the Noldor for a full migration. The remaining shelters were disassembled and smaller belongings packed. While the divisions of the Host went underway and as the Noldor congregated to whosever banner they marched under, Makalaurë had convoked the Council. Not one of the other brothers had attended and Yánadur initially thought it was only due to the massive preparations being handled for each of their hosts of people, especially when all but one of his brothers had just returned to the Grey Fields. But then Makalaurë had bidden the members to listen and, in what were maybe the fewest words possible, he relayed to Yánadur, Vëantur and the whole lot of the others his decision.

There had been a resounding silence, but Makalaurë gave them no opportunity to counsel him or dissuade him, if they even thought to. He simply told them of his course, briefed them on their respective instructions to set the Host marching, and moved to depart without a glance back. And Yánadur had again watched him go, shock coursing through the whole of his body and unable to recall a time when he had seen Makalaurë bear such an emotionless expression and an equally numb demeanor.

"Highness," Laiquisyar had called after him, horror written all over his face. "How can –"

Makalaurë had snapped up a hand and the Elf-lord fell silent at once. He then passed an unreadable glance over them all before turning on his heel and leaving.

None of the members of council had spoken a word afterwards, even to each other. And where Makalaurë had removed himself to for the subsequent hours, not even Yánadur could guess.

Witnessing the Seconds unfurl their respective lieges' banners and with Sornion now confirmed to be dead, Yánadur had erected Maitimo's banner himself, mounting it in the same field where stood Fëanáro's own banner that Vëantur had unfurled. Yánadur stood at his side and they exchanged a solemn glance, but neither commented on the deadness the two legendary banners now felt to carry.

Especially since word had spread rapidly among the Noldor in regards to Prince Maitimo. The Host, to say the least, had not been well receptive of it at all.

"We are to abandon him?" one Elf demanded in open incredulity. "He is our liege and king! What madness is this?" A chorus of agreement from the surrounding Noldor rose up at his exclamation.

Yánadur sighed in barely concealed weariness as he looked at the Noldo with a grudging sense of sympathy, a Captain he now realized, and he exchanged another telling glance with Vëantur who had grown eerily still when the Captain spoke. But Vëantur only gave a minute shake of his head, his stoical face darkening into an intense frown. Yánadur looked away, having to concur with the silent sentiment he could see plain in Vëantur's face: this was a mess.

Over half the Host was congregated on this particular field, extending over the land like a sea of people, and Yánadur could only look at them all in dismal disbelief. Valar, Makalaurë and his brothers really needed to devise a solution for those Elves who had marched under Fëanáro's and Maitimo's banners, and soon. He glanced at Vëantur again, beginning to regret his silent volunteering to bear Maitimo's banner in Sornion's place. But Yánadur looked at the horrified Elf. Etsirë was his name, Yánadur remembered. A Captain of the Nelyahossë, under the command of Sornion and, considering that he now stood before Yánadur with the mass of Noldor behind him, he had most probably marched under Maitimo's banner. Yánadur could only stare at him, flummoxed. Just how was he supposed to respond?

Vëantur, much to his relief, had stepped forward, his expression darkening even further. "Prince Makalaurë's decision stands," he declared in a tone that warned against any protestation. "None are sanguine with it, Prince Makalaurë and his lord brothers among them. But we will abide by his will and have not the time to dally in this discontent. The Host moves across the river, so see yourselves readied come the sound of the herald's horn!"

"And we are to just forsake the oaths that bind us to him?"

"Be still, Captain!" Vëantur bid angrily, and his hard eyes moved over the mass of Elves. "And any of you with equal utterances in your hearts. The banners have been raised and we await only the princes' command to march. So see yourselves readied!"

Yánadur narrowed his eyes at Vëantur and how flustered he was visibly becoming. He raised an eyebrow, suspicious at how rehearsed his speech sounded. "How many times have you now said those words?"

Vëantur glared at him, looking as though he were on the verge of actually losing his temper. But he said nothing, resolutely turning back to the task he had been busy with before being hounded by Noldor. Again, apparently. Yánadur wondered if the princes and Elf-lords or any others of authority were enduring demands and even pleas for answers among all of the banners. No, not well received at all.

And as for what several enraged and aghast members of the King's Guard had to say….

Yánadur sighed, shaking himself from such contemplation to focus on his newer task at hand: finding Carnistir. The grass grew thicker here, taller and more compact, and he waded through it with large steps, once again mystified by how wild this wildlife of Endórë was. He entered the grove of trees, hearing the scrapes of squirrel claws scrabbling up trunks as he shoved through the thickets. He swiveled his gaze between the trees, squinting as he tried to see through the shadows. Not much starlight could filter through the low-lying eaves. Insects were chirring loudly and a woodpecker knocked on wood somewhere high to his left, and he heard the trickle of a babbling brook somewhere nearby where a remnant of the North-river watershed flowed. But he finally spotted Carnistir not far off, thank the Valar. He nearly blended in with the dark where he sat on a tree root, and most certainly would have blended in entirely if not for the silver hue of his tunic. He must have been sitting there for a while, though. A multitude of bugs had gathered to hover around in his vicinity, the precious kind that lit up like dew drops of Laurelin when night fell. Even as he made that observation, several of those bugs migrated towards him, flashing their light as they slowly circled him.

Carnistir glanced up sharply at his approach, the wariness in his eyes easing once his gaze alighted on Yánadur's face. He turned his attention back down to his hands where he fiddled with something between his fingers. "I thought you were taking up Maitimo's banner."

His subdued voice was nearly lost in the incessant chirring of insects and Yánadur stumbled the final few steps through the knotwork of underbrush, wincing at the ungraceful racket he was raising. He made a face at the several bushes he saw sway away from him as he ventured closer to Carnistir. "I did. But Laiquisyar offered to head the banner for me since he has far more experience than I may claim in quelling a mass of people. I set out to find Makalaurë and Makalaurë bade me now to find you." He shot a cursory glance around at the scraggily boles. "And I have." He looked back down at Carnistir, seeing now that it was a slab of bark he held between his fingers and was steadily shredding. He hesitated with a mild frown. "What do you here, Carnistir? You almost sent the King's Guard into a fit and Makalaurë into a temper."

Carnistir snorted, the stiff motions of his fingers growing more rigid until the snapping of the bark was audible even above the crickets. Followed by another snap, and then another.

Yánadur watched him, slightly canting up an eyebrow. "Carnistir?"

The fingers stilled, dark eyes swiveling over to look up at him. Carnistir raised an eyebrow in turn, though whether in question or effrontery Yánadur could not tell.

Yánadur sighed, worrying his brow. "You know why I am here. Come," he said with a soft gesture. "They ready the steeds as we speak. Or as I speak, more like."

Carnistir sprung to his feet, slightly startling Yánadur by the sudden movement, but he only tossed the bark to the ground with a stiff jerk of his arm. For a long moment he just stood there, staring at the soil where the bark lay. But then he turned fully to Yánadur, cocking his head as he peered at him through slightly narrowed eyes. "Do you agree with him?"

Yánadur closed his eyes, sighing again. "Carnistir…."

"Yánadur."

Yánadur hesitated again. There was something in Carnistir's eyes that sent a worm of discomfort wriggling through him, something ominous that he did not want to interpret too closely. "In all truth, Carnistir, I think I am doing as Maitimo told me to do, locking away my heart right now." He glanced away. "I do not deny it is easier."

His eyes narrowed further, a hint of that familiar anger surfacing. "Do not dare freeze as he did," he gritted out darkly. But then he abruptly shook his head, tossing up his hands. "Nevermind. I do not want to hear it."

The tension increased in the set of his shoulders and Yánadur felt a swell of both compassion and exasperation as he watched Carnistir bend over and snatch up the same scrap of bark, absently breaking splinters off with his nails. Yánadur stepped closer. "Carnistir –" He sighed. "I am not one you need to guard against. I never was. Since you were a child you have known that." He did not bother to hide the concern from his voice and he peered at Carnistir closely, almost desperate to see through his irate visage and he could not stop the dejected frown that turned down the corners of his mouth. "I do not know anymore what to say to you or your brothers, and am almost afraid to say it when I think I do. Tyelkormo does not speak to Makalaurë or me. Curufinwë appears incensed now twice over. And Makalaurë –"

"Enough with his name!" Carnistir snapped. "I care not for the child it makes me sound like, but I cannot hear it. Not now." Muttering an oath under his breath, he threw the bark back to the ground with a vicious swipe of his hand. He glared at Yánadur, anger sparking in his eyes like flashes of fire. "What am I doing here, you ask?" He folded his arms, fingers clenching at his sleeves. "I am here because Maitimo came here. Nearly every night since we settled on this side of the river. And for all the stars of Varda, I cannot yet understand why he did." He looked away from Yánadur, perusing the many trees and foliage as he clenched his jaw. "Once he was sure Atar was asleep and would stay asleep, Maitimo came here. To this spot. Not every night, but often enough. Maitimo was never one to seek out solitude to find peace, not like Makalaurë, but on the nights Atar's body at last drove him to sleep he always came here afterwards."

A pensive frown crossed Yánadur's face. He looked away from Carnistir, idly perusing their surroundings and the bugs that still hovered around them. "I was unaware of that," he eventually said, almost to himself. The slight frown deepened. "I know he spent essentially every evening with your father, pouring over those parchments, or so I saw whenever I passed by his pavilion. I just assumed he stayed there to rest himself. I did not know he left at all, let alone to venture here into the woods."

Carnistir glanced at him but again looked away. "No one did. We all did so with Atar, to see that he fell asleep. It was how we discovered that Maitimo wandered here afterwards in the first place, when we exchanged places, but we left him to his peace and never enquired him about it. He deserved that much. So I came here to mayhap learn why he always came here after seeing to Atar's rest instead of resting himself, what this place was to him."

"And what is it?"

"Boring." A smile flitted across Yánadur's mouth, but it quickly faded as Carnistir began to pace in short strides, the uneven and root-stridden terrain not slowing him down at all. "I never asked him," Carnistir muttered, the frown on his face darkening as it gave way to the faintest traces of misery. He ran his hands roughly through his black hair as he stared into empty air, his eyes glazed over in something only he could see. "I never asked."

Yánadur hesitated, gesturing helplessly. "You may yet be able to."

"Yánadur!"

He jumped at the scathing bark and gritted his teeth in mounting exasperation at how easily startled he was of late. Releasing a soft sigh, Yánadur moved a step closer. "Pray calm yourself, Carnistir," he entreated quietly, trying to catch his gaze. "You help no one reducing yourself to this state."

Carnistir laughed, but it was short, bitter and devoid of any humor. "Calm myself," he echoed sardonically. "Calm myself. Everyone tells me to calm myself. Well alas, Yánadur!" he practically yelled as he spun on his heel to face Yánadur and his expression was thunderous, even in the heavy shadows. "Alas that I am not Maitimo who can don a cold face whenever he damned well pleased, nor am I Makalaurë who can apparently shut his heart against those dearest to him. And the Valar know that I am not Atar who could evidently endure everything!" Yánadur opened his mouth to speak at that but snapped it shut as Carnistir went on, his glare so raw and bright that it was penetrating. "I searched every patch of that field, Yánadur. Every patch! Even after those sixty Noldor were removed from the battleground, Tyelkormo and I continued to search. After no Noldor were left to find, even after we found his shield and helm we went on searching! Our hands actually blistered from how many of those carcasses we overturned and threw aside. And when at last it occurred to our panicked minds that Maitimo was actually not there, was nowhere to be found, I was both terrified and gladdened. Gladdened for it meant he was alive but terrified of what being alive meant for him. _Is_ meaning for him as we speak!" The ire in Carnistir's expression began to collapse into an abject wretchedness, one that he visibly tried to rein in, and he spun away from Yánadur when he could not. "And to hear Makalaurë– to know that– Know you the irony of all this?" he demanded, whipping back around.

Yánadur quirked an eyebrow, but Carnistir went on without even seeing it. "We do not actually know if Maitimo is even alive. Ah yes, we speak and speak and speak as if he is, but part of me wonders if he is, especially after hearing all the high words from Makalaurë's mouth. How can we know with no shadow of a doubt he was not slain with the rest? That Moringotto had not just wanted his lifeless hröa for whatever perverse purpose? But to believe him dead– And do you know what else?" Carnistir swiftly closed the distance between them, his expression cracking further. "Part of me, a small part of me wanted Findekáno in that pavilion." Carnistir nodded to himself, a humorless and bitter smile twisting his lips. "If only he could have been present, to hear all that Makalaurë was deciding. Part of me wanted it because I could only imagine our cousin's reaction and all he would have said to Makalaurë himself. And I could imagine the morphing of Makalaurë's face as he said it! But then I was glad Findekáno is a Sea away because I knew Makalaurë could not have withstood his tongue but perhaps that would not have been so terrible if it resulted in his change of course but if he changed his course and heeded what was right and the Noldohossë– the Noldor– Valar, he has my brother. He has him!" Carnistir plopped himself back down on the root with little grace, leaning on his knees as he covered his face, strands of hair falling forward over his shoulders.

Yánadur did not so much as shift on his feet, watching him with eyes that grew increasingly soft as a pain that was becoming now very familiar lanced through his own chest. He sighed shakily, swallowing down the rise in his throat and he forcefully moved his feet forward until he stood alongside Carnistir. He grabbed him by the arm, hauling him to his feet, and Carnistir did not resist after an insistent tug or two.

Yánadur peered at him, resisting the urge to touch him as he had attempted to do with Makalaurë. He sighed again in resignation, gesturing behind him in the direction he came from. "Come, Carnistir. We need to go."

Carnistir avoided his gaze, but he nodded and began to walk, his steps surprisingly quick. Yánadur matched his pace, keeping to his side as he tossed subtle glances his way, but Carnistir had suppressed whatever remained of his expression in the few moments on that tree root and was silent.

After another bout of hesitation Yánadur reached out, threading his hand under the fall of hair and resting it on the back of Carnistir's neck, moving the pads of his fingers in a circular motion against the stiff muscles. Carnistir tensed and for a moment Yánadur thought he would rebuff his touch in the same manner as Makalaurë had. But then he relaxed, a small sigh falling from his lips.

Neither of them spoke on their walk back to the encampment, where the gentle fog had gradually started to filter over the far expanse of land. The fog was difficult to see in the dark, merely knee-deep, but visible only as the moisture reflected the starlight above. And looking upon the encampment's fields now, Yánadur had to admit that it was a desolate sight. Empty of the hundreds after hundreds of shelters, empty of the distant flickering light of campfires, empty of people. All that remained were the hollowed out pits of said campfires, the one gouged out in the command tent's green still swamped with water. Yánadur knew it was foolish to feel any bout of sadness at the encampment being fully struck up, but it was depressing nonetheless, even though they were only going to move across the river and fortify their encampment all over again from scratch. But the night felt colder, almost barren, however much the wind was soothing and carried the ever faint traces of the Song. The Noldor had now mostly departed for the crossing of the river and, peering into the distance westward, Yánadur could see that only one banner remained. Makalaurë's banner, he eventually recognized. A mass of people were congregated on the far side where the healing ward had once been erected and were slowly shifting as they hiked up haversacks on shoulders and fastened any loose belongings.

The banners had gone ahead on the journey one by one an hour apart to prevent a clogging at the riverbed and, save for Makalaurë's own host of people, the King's Guard remained and those in the immediate service of the princes. All of them were in the near vicinity of each other, but the encampment was now so bare and foreign to the eye that Yánadur could not even identify where in the encampment they were, though he could see the fire pit of the center green not far off. The herd of horses had been guided alongside the van of the Host, but several steeds were left behind for whoever Makalaurë would send to ride on ahead. The horses were being readied now and Yánadur parted from Carnistir with a pat to his arm to fetch his own satchels.

Vëantur glanced at him as he neared, fondling the nose of his grey palfrey. "Where was he?"

"In the woods." Yánadur grunted as he hefted both straps onto one shoulder. He made a face at Vëantur. "At least he did not go far."

Vëantur nodded, running both hands along the horse's muzzle. "Makalaurë almost sent several of the King's Guard in your wake to aid you in your search, but I counseled against it. The fewer Elves we await the return of, the sooner we can depart."

Yánadur opened his mouth, ready to declare that the aid would have been quite welcome after all the time it had taken to locate that particular son of Fëanáro. But recalling the reception he himself had received from Carnistir, he decided he should be grateful none had come. "It was no matter of urgency. He just knew how to lose himself in the woods amid this dark." He looked to his right at the docile clip-clopping on the damp turf to find one from his own Company of the Tatyahossë guiding a saddled horse to him. He nodded his gratitude, gesturing the mare towards him and scratching her between the ears when she bowed her head in concession. Her brown pelt shined beneath his hand as he moved around to the pommel of the saddle, reaching up to rearrange the few satchels already knotted there.

Vëantur grunted in turn, bending over alongside his steed's flank to fasten the girth straps of his own saddle. The palfrey's ears pricked upward in response. "I thought as much, but all things as of late are a source of stress for Makalaurë. But his concern was sound, I think, particularly when Maitimo always ventured off with nary a word."

Yánadur looked over at him, his hands stilling. "You knew about that?"

Vëantur nodded, moving back to cup the muzzle of his horse. "Fëanáro told me. He asked me to keep an eye on him when Maitimo did so." He saw the look on Yánadur's face and shrugged. "Even accidents may happen in the wilds of Endórë, and we still have yet to fully chart this basin of Hísilómë."

Yánadur looked away with a frown. How had Fëanáro known if Maitimo had only left after he had fallen asleep? He glanced back at Vëantur over his shoulder, slowly working the straps again. "Well, those woods are rather harmless should you discount the occasional woodpecker. It may even be a worthwhile endeavor to send the healers among their undergrowth to search for their herbs. It was quite bountiful."

"Well, Maka–"

"Makalaurë!"

Both of them snapped around at the sharp apprehension in Pityafinwë's shout. Everyone looked. The twin, both of them, were standing beside their readied mounts, both peering into the east as Telufinwë whispered something in Pityafinwë's ear.

Makalaurë stepped forward, hefting the strap on his shoulder of the now very familiar haversack that contained Fëanáro's armor. "What?" he called.

Both of them pointed into the eastward sky and Yánadur turned his gaze to the range of mountains silhouetted in the distance. His eyes flitted back and forth across the barely discernable foothills and alps, searching for whatever caused the twins such alarm, but he could see nothing. He turned to Vëantur, a question on his lips, but Vëantur was staring with no little confusion and wariness at the sky, his eyes slightly widened and shining with the first glimmers of unease.

The sky.

Yánadur looked back, casting his gaze higher. It was a black, cloudless night littered with stars. But again, he saw nothing and was on the verge of voicing his confusion until he saw it. Something passed over the stars. It was brief, a flicker of a shape that broke up the constant blaze of starlight. He would have missed it entirely had he not been searching for it and he marveled that the twins had managed to see it at all. He felt Vëantur slowly migrate away from him to head towards Makalaurë and he followed, unable to remove his eyes from the shadow that still flitted above the mountain peaks and was gradually coming closer.

"What is that?" Aldëon muttered, his hand absently dropping to the scabbard of his sword and angling it slightly forward to facilitate drawing the blade.

"Orders, Highness?" Vëantur asked tersely with a quick glance at Makalaurë.

Makalaurë did not answer. He was peering into the skies at the shape that soared there like a dark cloud, his eyebrows drawn together as strands of hair gently wafted across his face and around his neck. The recognizable slither of an arrow shaft on wood suddenly sounded and several eyes snapped over to Tyelkormo. His tauriyavan-bow was held at the ready, an arrow nocked and half drawn, though aimed towards the ground, the steel broadhead glinting coldly as it disappeared into the low-riding fog. Those archers of the King's Guard and others of the Noldohossë who remained went to mirror his actions, unslinging bows from their harnesses.

Makalaurë twisted around, snapping his hand up and glaring at those archers. "No! Conserve your arrows."

"After all to have happened, dare it be risked?" one of them questioned with a look of apprehension. "Highness?" he added hastily. He stood not far from Tyelkormo with his own bow in hand, arrow now hesitantly held in the other instead of nocked.

Makalaurë returned his gaze to the skies, his frown deepening. "One in lonesome flight is hardly a risk."

"It is no bird," Tyelkormo warned darkly, glancing at Makalaurë, but he did not release the tautness on his bow. "I cannot hear any feathers of its wings."

"Orders, Highness?" Vëantur looked at Makalaurë with more urgency. "Its flight is swift."

"I said to conserve your arrows, not sheathe them." A moment passed after those words before the archers proceeded on with nocking arrows and flexing bowstrings while Makalaurë concentrated on the spectral creature that glided towards the encampment, but even his free hand swayed towards the blade at his hip. "Just be still."

"Maka–"

"Be still! Neither our sire nor lord brother hastened to slay any suspicious thing of Endórë, and nor will I."

Silence fell, though the arrows were not stored away again in their quivers and several Elves loosened their swords in their scabbards. The indistinct shape glided on, growing more distinct as it flew closer and before long it could truly be determined to be a winged creature. In a short time, the distant thrum of its passage through the air could be heard, though the creature made no noise itself. A league away it began its descent from the skies and more than one pair of eyes slightly widened at the realization of just how massive the creature was. As Tyelkormo had said, no feathers could be perceived on its wings, but it glided on the wind as smoothly as any bird.

It was a bat, Yánadur suddenly realized. Often enough had he heard bats fluttering around in the attics of Ampano Lambengolmoron, camping on the bracers of the edifice. He recognized the unique shape of the creature's angular appendages and the shadowy dark hue of its skin, recalling all of the sudden how Fëanáro had found the swarm amusing when it had been reported to him and thus elected to allow the small things to make a home out of the unused lofts. But this bat now gliding straight towards them was unlike any of those nocturnal animals that had fluttered around Tirion at the height of Telperion's waxing, that he had occasionally held in the palm of his hand to watch it chomp down on bits of fruit. This thing was easily twice the size of Huan and rose to the chest of any Elf with a wingspan that must elongate out as any Eagle's. A cloud of darkness moved with it, as though the tendrils of the vapors exuded from the folds of its membrane and the backs of its giant ears, and a smothering pall felt to settle over the field of some obscure necromancy, growing heavier and more oppressive with each moment it came closer to the ground.

Huan began barking. Yánadur's heart skipped a beat at the sudden noise and he snapped his eyes over to the hound in mild surprise. As if cued by the sharp bark, the horses began nickering and whinnying, their ears twitching back and forth and wide eyes flying. Several Elves rushed over to calm them, soft Quenya spoken with soft voices, but many steeds reared back, hooves shifting across the grass. Huan kept baying unrelentingly, the barks vicious and sharp while his paws dug agitatedly against the muddied turf as though he were resisting the urge to lunge. Tyelkormo did not silence him, did not even cast a halfhearted glance his way. No one did. All watched as the bat of gargantuan proportions finished its trajectory towards the field and landed with barely a sound, angling up its body to lean back on its webbed feet. Yánadur froze, casting a discreet glance at the others, but he could see by the stiffening set of their shoulders that the significance of the bat's landing did not bypass any of them.

The creature had landed in the very patch of the green where Huan had sat with a bark after the return from their crossing of the river, in between the pit and where the crates had been stacked.

Yánadur looked at Huan briefly, but the hound continued to bark at the fey creature not fifty paces away, his muzzle contorted with an unsightly snarl and his ears drawn back. The bat shifted itself into a stable stance, each joint's end of the webbed wings barbed with an iron claw, and it pierced its lethal thumbs deep into the soil. It carried something in its mouth, but before Yánadur could glean what the miniscule item might be the bat spat it out and it disappeared into the fog around its feet. Its iris-less eyes of a gleaming black roamed over the contingent of Elves until they fell upon Huan, who still went on madly barking. The bat spat at the hound, unleashing a bloodcurdling screech that sent many Elves wincing, though Huan merely barked all the louder. Yánadur's own ears went ringing at the macabre shriek, but it abruptly ended and was followed by several chirps from the bat's throat that sounded very much like a high-pitched chirring of a cricket. The bat snarled, first at Huan and then at the rest of them, its noseleaf curling and eerily long fangs glinting in the starlight as they were bared menacingly. The bat jerked up its thumbs from the soil and poised its wings in a readied position to uplift its body in immediate flight once more.

The bat flapped its wings a time or three, the deep whooshing thrum of their membrane abnormally loud. Its eyes moved over the Elves one by one until its gaze fell on Makalaurë himself. It spat again, followed by a small hiss.

"Kanafinwë Fëanárion!" it called, its sniveling voice discordant and chilling unto the very fëa, and more than one Elf cringed at its raucous pitch. Not even Orcs emitted a sound so horrid. The bat slammed its thumbs back into the ground only to wrench them out again. "Raise you your arrows against one in innocent flight? From the Mightiest of Eä I come, and carry for you his words on my tongue. Be you wise, O Prince of the Noldor. For once."

A shiver ran down Yánadur's spine as he stared at the winged creature, rendered utterly silent. He blinked.

A talking bat. That could talk. In Quenya.

Oh, sweet Elentári….

Makalaurë did not identify himself, though it was rather obvious that he did not need to since the bat's cadaverous eyes remained unwaveringly trained on him. Huan's persistent barks were all that disrupted the tense silence. The bat went on hissing and shifting, Huan went on baying, and Makalaurë regarded the bat dispassionately, standing eerily still. His eyes were bright, the muscle in his jaw ticking and his knuckles whitening where he gripped the strap of the haversack. The bat spat again, baring its fangs further and Makalaurë released the smallest of sighs as he raised his hand in an unspoken gesture. Another moment passed before arrows were slowly returned to their quivers, the archers exchanging uncertain glances. Tyelkormo was the last to do so, his intense gaze swiveling from the bat to Makalaurë and back again, his eyes brightening as his lips pressed into a tight line. He jerked the arrow's nock from the bowstring, sliding it into his quiver in one fluent motion, appearing just as angry in his face as Huan sounded. Though Huan also stopped his barking, instead rumbling out growls, his teeth bared and ears drawn back until practically flat against his head.

Makalaurë lifted his head, his expression darkening. "No gofer of Moringotto is welcome here," he called. The bat spat again. "Be you gone from this grey land lest you desire that volley of arrows!"

The bat chirruped gutturally, its noseleaf quivering as it lowered its wings, hunching down in a position better suited for its skeletal arms. They could hear the grass being torn by the claws of its thumbs in the fog as it listed forward, its massive ears twitching. "To you my Master says: Shame upon the House of Fëanáro and the honor of all princes decried! You broke the covenant I in good faith offered, and for it your lord brother is chained beneath my wing. Seek you my wrath, my displeasure? As I erstwhile spoke, my design is above Noldorin grudge, yet unceasing you remain in your pining to harbor glories of war. All gratitude be to Noldor faithless and treacherous, for in mine Iron Crown the Silmarils bright and fair are enmeshed and shall henceforth be. But so also shall Nelyafinwë henceforth be fated to dwell in Angamando if you heed not my last offering of mercy. In spite of every Orc you have slain and your perfidy towards our covenant, I will yet allow you free passage from my demesne and will release your lord brother from his bondage, regardless of how undeserving of it the both of you are. Heed that I speak again: Forsake your fruitless war, O esteemed Noldor, and return you unto the West! Or if the abode of my Brethren is to you now so unsightly, depart you far from Endórë and into the South of the World! When you do Nelyafinwë will be freed, and until you do Nelyafinwë is mine, and he will know why it is so. So be you gone and with haste fly! With you my patience has ended and if you remain, do accept my pledge that bitter fruit shall be borne by both you and him."

The bat's right ear twitched. "So ends my Master's words. I am not bidden to return to him an answer, but make –"

Huan lunged without warning, bolting from his stiff stance and snarling out the most malicious of growls. The bat spun to him, screeching out its unholy shriek as it reared up on its bent feet and ripped its thumbs out of the soil, clumps of dirt flying into the air. It flapped its mighty wings in potent thrusts, their deep thrum drowning out Huan's barks once again. Huan skidded to a sliding halt as the power of the wind its membrane stirred batted painfully against him. Huan growled and lunged again but braced his feet against the ground as the bat forced another wall of air on him. Huan bared his teeth fully, growling deep in his chest with his ears still flattened, dark eyes sparking. But he stepped back, returning to Tyelkormo's side.

The bat hissed, stopping its beating of the air and resting fully on its feet again, but it did not lower its wings. It spat at Huan, the barbed points of its wings' third digits tearing up the grass before turning its eyes on Makalaurë again, their bottomless black glittering. "If seek you to try and slay me, my Master will know, so keep you well to memory that he holds your precious lord brother in his keeping!" It chirred at Huan again, the piercing sound interchanging with hisses and shrieks, and the membrane of its wings fluttered ominously.

Huan growled louder, shifting on his hind legs, and Tyelkormo beside him looked just as taut, every muscle of his body coiled tight and his eyes unfathomably bright with suppressed fury as he glared at the bat, unblinking and hands working at his sides and on the grip of his bow. Everything from his dark expression to the tension in his body was humming with hostility. A long moment passed wherein the bat proceeded to hiss at Huan, Makalaurë, and now Tyelkormo, but then Tyelkormo visibly subsided as he released a shuddering breath, his face a mask of painfully dark indignation. With his free hand he reached out and clutched onto the mass of fur at Huan's neck, giving it a slight tug. Huan ceased growling, bowing his head and retreating back a few more steps.

The bat ceased its noise, lowering its wings and piercing its thumbs back into the earth as it turned its attention on Makalaurë, twisting its head to the side. It blinked. "Make my Master await your compliance at the peril of your Host and wellbeing of Nelyafinwë, for my lord declares he shall not be released until you have removed yourselves across the Sea or no less than a hundred leagues away, to and beyond Lestanórë. Then will Nelyafinwë walk unchained from Angamando, but only upon the evidence of your fulfilling of this new covenant. My Master says he will give no such mercy again, so with haste fly and be you gone!"

The bat launched from the ground in one powerful thrust of its wings and ascended swiftly into the heights of the sky, turning around and flying off into the darkness. The thrum of its passage was heard even after it melded into the cloudless night, the shadow of its shape and the corona of darkness about it breaking up the starlight once more as it became a black speck in the distance.

No one spoke, nor did Huan, who had lowered himself to his haunches at Tyelkormo's feet. Makalaurë finally stirred, turning to look over at Tyelkormo, his expression unreadable. His eyes moved from his brother to the hound and back again. "What was Huan saying?"

Tyelkormo looked down at Huan, running his fingers through the thick fur that he had been gripping moments before. Tyelkormo twisted his jaw, a look of foreboding entering his face. "Let us just say we now have another Maia to contend."

Makalaurë nodded, appearing unsurprised as he looked back out to the distant mountains. His face may as well have been carved from stone. The bat was no longer visible, nor could the passage of its flight be heard. Makalaurë hefted the strap of the haversack on his shoulder and began walking in long strides to where the bat had stood.

Yánadur watched him in no little confusion, growing only more flummoxed when Makalaurë stopped and studied the layer of fog with a keen gaze before he remembered that the bat had spat something from its mouth. Makalaurë soon leaned over to pick it up, turning it over in his hands. Yánadur exchanged an uncertain glance with Vëantur. Without speaking both of them moved to follow Makalaurë with more than a little hesitance. The other brothers moved also, along with a few archers, though they stopped a small distance away while the rest crowded behind Makalaurë. Yánadur was careful not to touch him, particularly when he could see even with all his apparel and armor that Makalaurë was shaking. Hard. Yánadur forced himself to focus on the minstrel's hands.

It was a parcel. Or it looked like one. It was made of a ghastly material, a skin of some fashion, the likes of which Yánadur was too leery to guess. It was no bigger than a handspan, rounded and plump and beaded with moisture. Makalaurë was trying to open it, turning it this way and that, his fingers scrabbling to find a seam or a nook, but apparently none could be found on the smooth surface. His movements grew stiffer and agitated, his fingers taking on a perceptible tremble. There was a hiss of steel on leather and Makalaurë turned to Tyelkormo, who extended the hilt of his hunting knife in silence, not looking at Makalaurë as he took the sharp blade and sliced impatiently through one edge of the material. He handed the knife back, tore the rest apart with his fingers and peeled back the folds of the dark skin. Makalaurë froze, what little there was in his face disappearing completely.

Hair. Russet hair, a hue similar to that of the twins', but more deep and vibrant. Long strands of it were twisted and folded to lie cradled in the heart of the parcel, the tresses lusterless and coated with dust. Yánadur stared at it over Makalaurë's shoulder in growing horror, a knot forming solidly in the pit of his stomach. He could feel Vëantur stiffen beside him, heard the slight catch of his breath.

Carnistir sighed in disgust and bit out a vicious curse as he spun away, his gate stiff and quick as he walked towards the mounts, which had still yet to fully settle from their whinnying. Tyelkormo looked down at the copper hair in silence, his face transmuting with an onslaught of emotions so raw and extreme that Yánadur found he could not look into his expression for long. Tyelkormo slowly leveled a peculiar look on Makalaurë that Yánadur could not interpret, one Makalaurë did not seem to see, or if he did he ignored it. But Tyelkormo did not speak. He too turned away but walked in no particular direction, Huan following in his wake.

Makalaurë finally stirred, lifting up his eyes from the neatly twisted knot of hair. He did not look at Yánadur or Vëantur or his brothers, his gaze flicking across the nearly imperceptible silhouette of the mountains. Lowering his eyes, he shakily closed the parcel and turned on his heel, his boots squelching on the yet moist turf. Yánadur turned to watch him go, his steps slower this time on the grass, and a sense of distraught weariness came over Yánadur. The twins and Curufinwë departed shortly after, speaking no words and heading in the direction of the steeds. For as well as Yánadur knew them, he could not read one thought in their faces, not even the twins, the least guarded of them all.

He turned to look at Vëantur, giving a small sigh.

Vëantur slowly nodded. "I know," he murmured. He narrowed his eyes, peering into the directions Makalaurë and his brothers had headed before raising an eyebrow at Yánadur. "You want Makalaurë?"

Yánadur returned the questioning look. "And you take the others?"

He gave a halfhearted shrug. "Fine with me."

"Very well."

Yánadur clapped him on the shoulder before turning to follow Makalaurë.

* * *

Ampano Lambengolmoron: Quenya for "the Hall[lit. wooden hall] of the Loremasters of Tongues". No official name was given for their edifice and only ever referenced by Tolkien in his notes as a 'school' or 'academy', neither of which is applicable.


	17. Decide, Decide

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 **Chapter 17:** **  
** **Decide, Decide**

Makalaurë was just beyond a patch of thickets generally favored by the horses to graze, though all of the remaining steeds were still being calmed from their fright of the bat. Yánadur did not expect to see Makalaurë sitting directly on top of the sward, knowing he himself would have sought to avoid the moisture that the wild grass was yet saturated with, but this section of the encampment was more grassland and trees than littered with beds of stones to hunker down on. Yánadur rounded the tall shrubberies, steering away to mind the brambles, though he stopped his approach just beyond them, his last reception from Makalaurë ringing clear in his memory.

Makalaurë did not lift up his gaze from where he stared into his lap. Yánadur waited, but Makalaurë did not turn to acknowledge him. "I know we must leave." His voice was nearly lost in the incessant chirring of crickets. Yánadur frowned at the emptiness he heard in it. "I just needed a moment."

Yánadur craned his neck to peer over the haversack resting alongside Makalaurë and a sense of weary resignation overcame him when he saw the bat's parcel. The ghastly thing was in his lap, opened with its torn skin wafting in the breeze. Makalaurë held several of the fair strands, absently running them between his fingers. Yánadur leaned back, bowing his head to briefly turn his eyes away as he folded his arms somewhat stiffly. "I come not for the same reason you bade me search out Carnistir." He turned his eyes back, tilting his head. "May I?"

There was no response and for a moment Yánadur wondered whether he had even been heard. But Makalaurë turned his head towards him, though not completely his gaze, gesturing halfheartedly to the other side of the haversack. Yánadur sat, making a face at the chilly moisture that immediately seeped into his buttocks and thighs. He must have made some noise to the effect because Makalaurë glanced at him, a brief flicker of what might have been bleak amusement appearing in his eyes, but it was gone before Yánadur could fully identify it. He adjusted himself before fixating all of his attention on Makalaurë, but he did not speak. He looked him up and down, seeing that Makalaurë had yet to rid himself of the filth from their journey, not even his hair, its natural sheen now lackluster from the film of dust, though he appeared to have at least taken a damp cloth to his face and neck. Yet he looked just as much a mess as he had in that pavilion only hours ago.

Makalaurë looked at him when the silence persisted, his fatigued eyes running up and down Yánadur in the same manner of idle perusal to settle on his face. But when he met his eyes it was maybe only a breath it lasted before Makalaurë lowered his own, his expression collapsing into those faint traces of wearied misery.

He closed his eyes, sighing as he buried his face in his other hand, leaning on his knee as the fingers that toyed with the copper hair stilled. He sighed again, this time with a mild tremble. "I know, Yánadur," he muttered again, his voice tight with strain. "Just grant me one moment."

Yánadur frowned, suspicious of just what Makalaurë might have seen in his own face. He shook himself from the thought. "I never said I would not."

Makalaurë did not lift his head or, again, provide any indication that he heard the words. A muscle in his jaw ticked, the tendons of his hand flexing as he squeezed his fingers a little harder over where they covered his face. "He called it Angamando."

"What?"

Makalaurë removed his hand, sitting up a little straighter as he stared at the grass, and Yánadur was taken by the empty look on his face. "He called it Angamando," he repeated a tad louder. "The Dwelling of Moringotto. He called it Angamando."

Yánadur glanced away, briefly gnawing at his lip. "I know," he murmured, eyes darkening. "I would rather not think about that."

Makalaurë gave no response, but minute movement in his peripheral vision prompted Yánadur to turn his gaze back to the minstrel. And he watched as Makalaurë took up the hair now with both hands, absently threading the strands apart with his fingertips, pressing them back together and rolling them between his fingers and then repeating the process all over again. And again and again. Yánadur opened his mouth to speak but hesitated, his gaze suddenly drawn to the shorn hair as he truly observed it for the first time, unwittingly listing forward as morbid curiosity overcame him and he had to crush down the bilious rise of disgust at the thought of actually shearing an Elf's hair.

He knew the strands belonged to Maitimo. That fiery hue was well recognized even by those who glimpsed it only once, and it was so rare for an Elf of any kin to have so distinguishing a feature of their hröa. It was what identified Maitimo as very few other things did. But watching Makalaurë toy with it now, Yánadur was beginning to realize that the hair sample was long. Very long. The sickly feeling grew. Great stars, he must have hacked Maitimo's hair off at his neck for the strands to be so long and unbroken. But it was not the length that made a foreboding grow in Yánadur, because his face turned grim as he saw just how much filth coated the hair. Each Elf had been dust-ridden after ten strenuous days of traveling the steppes, including himself, but the state of Maitimo's hair made him feel clean. Images came unbidden, if whether he had been dragged for a league across the steppes for his hair to have become so imbedded with grime, some of the dust a black color he could not remember seeing out on the plains. Though, he admitted sourly, the state of the hair did answer Carnistir's question of whether or not he was even alive. Despite its filth, it was still healthy, nowhere near as dead and brittle as the hair of those slain Elves had been.

"Did you know that I wonder where I will lay myself to sleep?" Yánadur's eyes snapped up to him and Makalaurë nodded stiffly, a humorless, almost acerbic smile ghosting across his mouth. "Of all things to now render me a panicked mess, my mind chooses to linger on the question of where I shall sleep." The ghost of a smile emerged again, a bitterness curdling in his eyes. "You know how shelters were assigned, at least until more canvas is plaited. The twins shared a tent. Carnistir shared one with Curufinwë and Telpë. And Maitimo and I shared one while Atar had his own. But then Maitimo would spend nigh every other night with Atar to ensure he slept. He often ventured afterwards into the woods, you see," he added. "Though he always returned before Atar could know what he did."

Yánadur pursed his lips, looking away as he idly ran his fingers through the grass. "I hardly think Fëanáro would have minded," he said mildly.

Makalaurë gave a quiet snort. "Do not jest over this, Yánadur. You knew Atar. He would have had a fit, doubly so if he discovered that Maitimo went without escort. But during those times when one of us would normally take his place beside Atar, Maitimo was often too fatigued and remained there to sleep himself instead of making his way back to our tent. Tyelkormo usually shared quarters with Carnistir and Curufinwë, but when Maitimo spent the rest of the night with Atar, Tyelko then stayed with me." He huffed cynically, a self-loathsome grin again twisting his lips as he worked the hairs faster between his fingers. "And now I wonder just how our quarters will be shared after today." He shook his head. "Preposterous," he bit out quietly.

Yánadur frowned, now exceptionally and even lugubriously curious as to just what words had been exchanged in that command tent. As he and Vëantur had bidden the others, they had too removed themselves well beyond the reach of uplifted voices, only then venturing forth to the green come the sight of one brother after another departing from the pavilion, each with a darker and more dismal expression than when they had first entered. And Makalaurë's words now elicited that same inquisitiveness that made Yánadur warily wonder just how and why Makalaurë had been on his knees when he had screamed for Orostámo.

But Yánadur did not voice his thoughts. He just stared at him, again resisting the temptation to offer a ministering hand. He clasped them around his legs instead to ensure he did not. "Makalaurë, I think you need to breathe a little bit."

Makalaurë sighed, his fingers stilling as he closed his eyes, frowning. "Yánadur, I just abandoned my own brother to the mercy of Moringotto. In a place the Enemy dubbed Angamando. And you tell me to breathe?" He opened his eyes, a glimmer of impatience flashing in them as his lips tightened. He looked at Yánadur and Yánadur resisted the urge to lean away from what he saw in them, feeling suddenly wary. Eyes he knew so well were dark and their grey, normally so merry and scintillating with delight, now more resembled the gloomy hue that lingered after a storm, filled to the brim with self-loathing. Makalaurë lifted an eyebrow. "Why are you here, Yánadur? What do you want? I feel enough like a sapling being robbed of its water."

Yánadur regarded him gravely, feeling a mote of frustration but he checked it, giving a nod of concession. "You can fain guess. We need to know if we are to move again. And such needs to be decided with haste. Most of the Host is across the river or will have crossed it come the time we reach them. If we are to truly head south as the bat told us to, word must be sent ahead fast to see that the Noldor forego settling right away, something they will most likely do since the fields for the new encampment grounds were already marked. So?" He gestured questioningly with both hands, clasping them back around his knees.

Makalaurë was already shaking his head, slowly and with fatigue. "We flee into the South no more than we would return to the West." Despite the grim set of his expression, there was resolve in his voice, though he kept his gaze on the ground. And his expression transformed into one of utter, dark bitterness. "He will not release Maitimo," he murmured softly, and the lilt of fatalism in his voice was painful to Yánadur's ears. "He trapped Maitimo and would now do the same to us, if it means in the end that his will is achieved. I think that is becoming clearer now more than ever. Truthfully, I grow more and more to agree now with Maitimo's and your conjecture." He gave a feeble gesture with his hand, glancing at Yánadur and whipping his eyes away. "What you said, that more so does he work to see us forfeit our war and be gone than to waste his time dealing with us at all. You were right. You must be." He scoffed, his eyes growing vacant and not a little dim. "And even if he would release Maitimo, we go not into the South because our Oath keeps us here. As Maitimo said, war will come. And I cannot deny how my heart begins to more and more sing Maitimo's words of being now more desirous than before to battle Moringotto." He scoffed again, a tight smile twisting his mouth. "For stealing from us now three kings. Valar, I would swear it again right now I am so angry. I know not whether to love it or loathe it, but even did it not…." He faltered, tensing even further as his brow puckered in dismay. He bowed his head, lifting a hand to thread his fingers through his hair, only to viciously grip the strands in a fist, kneading and pulling them. "He will not release him," he whispered raggedly. "No matter what we do, he will not release him. He knows we are bound here to remain by our Oath, yet still…." He trailed off completely, releasing a shuddering breath as he gripped the dark strands tighter.

Yánadur frowned, suddenly curious at the question of whether they could even be assured that Moringotto knew of the Oath they had sworn. How could he? But he was diverted from such ponderings by Makalaurë's morose figure and he watched him helplessly, utterly unknowing of what to do or say as Makalaurë visibly shredded himself apart with whatever deprecating thoughts haunted his mind, loose strands of hair falling forward on occasion at the slumping of his shoulders. Yánadur cast a futile glance around for some manner of inspiration, anything, but he found his gaze riveted on Makalaurë, the sense of helplessness growing until unbearable. He could not stand it any further. Casting hesitation to the wayside, he leaned across the haversack and reach out, resting his hand on Makalaurë's shoulder, kneading the tense muscles he could feel contracting beneath his fingers even with the layer of apparel. He was relieved when Makalaurë did not rebuff his touch, but he had not relaxed either, and Yánadur partly wondered if he was so lost within himself that he could not even feel his hand.

He sighed, running his hand over the shoulder a few more times before clasping it, giving him a firm shake to garner his attention. "I cannot say I disagree with you, but I still find myself confounded."

Makalaurë drew in a deep breath and straightened as he rubbed his eyes. "With what?" he asked wearily.

"Well…." Yánadur hesitated, shifting where he sat to better face him. And he looked at him, not bothering to suppress the sheer confusion he felt. "Why capture him?" He gave a minute shake of his head. "The bat said that Moringotto will keep him 'chained beneath his wing' until we do as he says. I hardly trust any promise or bargain from him, especially now, but why did he capture Maitimo and kill the rest of the delegation? By Moringotto's words, he intends to use Maitimo as leverage against us, but why not take captive any of the other three score Noldor as well to hold over our heads? That would have been a greater leverage for him, to demand the ransom of all of them in return for our departure, not just one Elf. If seeks he in truth to encourage us to go into the South, it makes no sense for Moringotto to not just imprison all of them instead of only Maitimo. Yes, Maitimo would be the greatest extortion to you and your brothers, to the Host, but why cast away all the others? Moringotto must know how we would have reacted to all of them being captured. So why only take Maitimo and kill the rest? It seems redundant and even spurious if the design is to compel us to do as he says."

Makalaurë was nodding, a faint grimace passing over his face. "I know. Maitimo is Atar's heir, the third Finwë. Moringotto may desire to have Maitimo for that reason alone, which I actually can believe. But I cannot believe that it was solely why he captured Maitimo and that is precisely why I know Moringotto will not release him, no matter what we might do. He uses Maitimo as the incentive for us to leave, the 'token of his sincerity' as the promise of a Silmaril was the first time. But Moringotto broke that covenant as much as we did. Those Valaraukar hailing from the east were proof of that, and even if no Valaraukar had come to the mountains, Moringotto is a fool if he expects any of us to believe that only _twenty_ Orcs could actually slay the sixty we sent with Maitimo, particularly after we massacred the hordes he assaulted on us. No. As much as he accuses us, Moringotto was just as faithless. If he had been sincere on his end of the parley, then his newer bargain might hold some value. But it is clear Moringotto wanted Maitimo before he even could have gleaned my brother went to the appointed place with more than agreed, for he was already awaiting him with a greater force."

Yánadur tilted his head, the frown deepening. "Why did you not say all that to the bat? It would have been delightful to see how that creature would have countered such an argument."

Makalaurë shook his head, the lassitude in his worn expression becoming more prominent. "No. That bat was a messenger, not an emissary. And a Maia evidently, according to Huan, though I would be suspicious of any dark creature that can speak Quenya and be shrouded in such necromancy. But upon my command for it to depart from the Grey Fields, the bat remained. He was only acting as a mouthpiece of Moringotto, just as that Orc-speaker had."

Yánadur sighed, shoving down the bout of mild disappointment. "I grow tired of how they give us no room to speak our piece. By Vëantur's account, the Orc-speaker was no better."

Makalaurë shrugged. "A messenger is a messenger. Or so they say."

"Well, in retrospect, I suppose the bat answered the question as to whether or not Moringotto has more Maiar at his beck and call."

Makalaurë grunted. "And how wonderful for us."

The corner of Yánadur's mouth quirked upward. "You sound like Carnistir." The glimpse of a grin faded. "Though I confess to being little sanguine that the question of it is now replaced with this new one of what mesh Moringotto now works to weave over our eyes. I cannot discern what design he intends with Maitimo and that terrifies me."

"I know." Makalaurë was silent for a long moment, his eyes growing vacant as he persisted on with staring at the ground. "It is completely illogical, which makes no sense because everything Moringotto did has always been logical, at least as we have seen." He scoffed low in his throat, a hint of derision surfacing on his face. "Honestly, how can he believe we are so gullible as to trust this new bargain when he broke that agreement just as much as we did?"

Yánadur lifted a shoulder in a slight shrug. "Mayhap Moringotto is unaware that we know he broke it," he suggested, and he shrugged again at Makalaurë's sharp look. "The bat flew to the encampment and if that creature came from this Angamando, it had to have seen the carnage at the appointed place. But mayhap it could not see that the Noldor were missing among the many Orc carcasses, that we ourselves had been there to remove them."

Makalaurë looked at him skeptically, lifting an eyebrow. "Forgot you the Valaraukar? Tyelkormo's blow on his horn as we ran with all haste from the mountains to the Host? How we abandoned the encampment and later watched it burn and then be flooded? And that we now leave to relocate across the river because of it?"

Yánadur made a face of chagrin. "That is true. The presence of the Valaraukar would be difficult for Moringotto to explain away." He grimaced, a mote of disgust rising. "Valar, that only makes it worse. For Moringotto to be fully aware of what we know and that he still baits us with such a thing. Such mockery."

Makalaurë nodded slowly, reluctant agreement evident in the tight pursing of his lips. "I think we know in truth now just who is playing whom," he muttered under his breath. He looked at Yánadur. "The only good thing to take from this is that it is confirmed Moringotto no longer underestimates us. He proved that with the bat's mention of Lestanórë. Or mayhap it is not so good, for his underestimation of us was the one advantage that saw us to victory in that battle not two months ago. The less Moringotto underestimates us, the less we retain that advantage, and the fewer steps we stay ahead of him."

Yánadur frowned at him. "What?"

"Lestanórë," he emphasized. "The bat said Moringotto would only free Maitimo after we remove ourselves at least a hundred leagues beyond Lestanórë, whatever that is."

"Or wherever." Yánadur nodded at his questioning look. "Perhaps it is a place, as much as Losgar or Hísilómë is. It would make more sense than it being a landmark. And the name itself identifies that it is a land, though its components may mean little when it is Moringotto offering up the names."

Makalaurë nodded in concession. "Either way, we know nothing of this Lestanórë. Had never even heard of it until now. Moringotto underestimated us severely when he assaulted us, but now he assumes we are learnt on these wide lands of Endórë as to know of this Lestanórë and where it is."

Yánadur hummed in consideration. "Unless Moringotto just wants us to assume that he assumes we do."

Makalaurë looked at him, clearly hesitant and not a little discomfited, before he let out a jaded sigh. He closed his eyes, lifting his hand again to rub his fingers against his temple.

Yánadur grimaced. "Sorry."

Makalaurë slowly shook his head, keeping his eyes shut. "Do not be. It only emphasizes that we cannot guess what Moringotto truly knows anymore, what words from his mouth are of the truth or of a lie, or mayhap we never could. Again, I think we know now just who is playing whom."

Yánadur grimaced again, uncertain how to respond to that. Much to his relief, however, he did not have to, for a sound greater than the chirring of insects came from their right and both turned to find Vëantur approaching. He hesitated at the patch of thickets, eyes swiveling back and forth between the two, but Yánadur gave a discreet gesture of reassurance with his hand and Vëantur rounded the bushes, coming to a halt before them both. "Highness, Yánadur," he greeted mildly.

Yánadur nodded his head to him, but Makalaurë sighed in the same wearied manner as he had with Yánadur, bowing his head as he gave it a small shake. "I know we must go, Vëantur. I just needed a moment."

Vëantur lifted an inquisitive eyebrow. "Good," he said after a pause. "We need to leave all the sooner, for the fog thickens upon the ground and I would not see it clog the air before crossing the river ourselves. It is not why I came, but it is good to know there are no further delays."

Yánadur narrowed his eyes, perusing the Commander's face in effort to garner even the smallest morsel of an indication of how his own undertaking with the other brothers had gone. Vëantur's face was as stoic as ever, if not entirely unruffled, but Vëantur caught his elusive glance and gave a discreet nod. Yánadur frowned. What did that mean? He gestured at the ground nearby for him to sit, but Vëantur gave a quick shake of his head before looking away completely to Makalaurë. Yánadur's confusion grew, his gaze passing suspiciously between the two, as much as Vëantur was doing to them.

Vëantur continued to stare at Makalaurë, his expression softening just a little. "I pray to have not disturbed your discourse," he added after another pause.

Another sigh came before Makalaurë lifted his head, his hand dropping with a flop back to the parcel. "You do not," he assured softly. "Yánadur and I speak of the bat and its lovely message. Even though my banner is the last to march, word will run rampant upon our reaching the Host and the ill tidings of the bat will spread." His eyes narrowed thoughtfully at him. "Mayhap I will send you ahead, to at least inform those at the van and the Seconds that we are to settle in the Grey Fields as planned. The Council I will deal with later." His eyes fluttered away, a faint cringe of discomfort briefly appearing. "I know not if I can stomach them right now."

Vëantur gave a single nod. "Understood, Highness. If you will it, I will ride ahead when we set out."

Makalaurë looked up again, peering at him. "What are you doing here, then, if not to bid me to my steed?"

Vëantur folded his arms. "My question was answered. I came from talking with your brothers on the matter and now came to learn what we are to do since we have little time to see it done, and learned what we will do I have."

Makalaurë glanced at Yánadur before swiveling his eyes to the ground, but even in that brief look Yánadur could see the conflict warring in them. They waited, exchanging a quick glance themselves, but Makalaurë gestured towards the grass. "Sit, Commander." He waited until Vëantur did and he regarded the Noldo with a solemn, hesitant gaze. "Is this something I need to confer with my brothers on?" he eventually asked. His face was guarded. "If so, our departure will be delayed awhile longer, though we have delayed long enough and the rear sentinels will come running soon."

Vëantur hesitated, twisting his jaw and a glimmer of uncertainty showed in his eyes. "I do not believe so, Highness. I spoke with them, Tyelkormo mostly. He was with Curufinwë and Carnistir was – ah…."

"–being Carnistir, I know," Makalaurë finished, giving a tired nod.

Vëantur raised an eyebrow again but nodded. "Yes, well, I could gather little from what they said, at least from what they told me. They barely spoke a word to me when I enquired what the Host is to do, what orders I am to follow. They just told me to ask you."

That answer was clearly not the one Makalaurë was looking for, nor one he wanted to hear if the imperceptible way his face fell said anything. He looked away, pressing his lips. Yánadur looked from him to Vëantur, a frown creasing his brow. "That was it?"

Vëantur gestured uncertainly. "More or less." His attention was on Yánadur, but his gaze kept flicking over to Makalaurë. "They are not pleased. Tyelkormo commented about yielding to a mockery of…something." He trailed off, mildly confounded. "He spoke too fast for me to make it out, but Curufinwë calmed him."

Makalaurë's fingers absently smoothed over the strands of hair. "What said they of going into the South?"

"Well, Curufinwë said Moringotto must believe us the fool if he believes us so susceptible. I enquired what then we shall do, to build up our encampment anew and settle or what else. Again, they told me to go to you, though Carnistir said in particular that he would sooner return unto the West and enthrall himself to the Valar than permit Moringotto to gloat that the Noldor were hatched on the underside of a tree." He enunciated each word slowly and with precaution, as though questioning if he was even reciting the correct words in the first place. Vëantur looked between the two of them. "I–I do not know what that means."

Yánadur gave a tight smile. "Worry not," he assured wryly. "It is actually a compliment."

Vëantur's skeptical expression said enough. "Well, here I am," he ended with a soft outbreath. And again he looked between the two, expectant and waiting.

For a long moment Makalaurë forewent responding, neither shifting nor lifting his eyes, only brushing his knuckles against the Maitimo's hair. "And what say the twins?"

A faint wince creased Vëantur's forehead. "They would not speak to me."

Yánadur's eyebrows hiked up. "At all?"

Vëantur shook his head. "I approached them, but they told me to stop and to leave them be. So I did and sought you out."

Yánadur was silent at that, uncertain of even what to think and found himself joining Vëantur in watching Makalaurë as tactfully as possible, awaiting some response. They were not made to wait long. Makalaurë stood, moving with a speed that belied the exhaustion in his face and Yánadur hastened to follow, taken aback by his sudden alacrity. Vëantur sprung to his feet as well, reacting a little faster. Makalaurë clasped the open parcel of hair in one hand, reaching down with the other to take up the strap and shoulder the cumbersome haversack. He took a deep breath, closing off any glimpse of emotion in his face completely as he looked from Vëantur to Yánadur and back again. "Then let us depart. Tell Tyelkormo I want him to ride ahead with you. As well as Curufinwë. He should be with his son right now."

Vëantur frowned and Yánadur hesitated, regarding Makalaurë warily. "You will not tell them?"

Makalaurë sighed, briefly shutting his eyes as if summoning his last vestiges of patience. "Do not start, Yánadur. Not now." He did not meet his gaze as he walked around Yánadur, lightly shoving the parcel against his chest as he did. Yánadur caught it before it could fall, glancing in question to Makalaurë's retreating figure and feeling a pang of frustration when he did not turn around. But any frustration swiftly turned into a swarm of discomfort as he looked down at the hair, a sickly sensation forming in his stomach again. The copper hue was remarkably stark against the dark rawhide. Yánadur ripped his eyes away, closing the flaps of the torn parcel as securely as he could.

Vëantur also had a minor look of discomfort on his face, but he looked from Yánadur to the direction Makalaurë departed in. "You know him better than I. Why is he so akin to a stone?"

Yánadur leveled a mildly mordant glare on him. "You actually need to ask that?"

Vëantur made a face. "You know of what I speak. He walks more withdrawn than before. I know not if I would rather him freeze as Maitimo did, as they all were attempting to do. That at least I was growing proficient in dealing with."

Yánadur gave a slight shrug. "I cannot blame him. I know the bat's own threat against Huan echoes in my mind, that Maitimo awaits the consequence of any offense of ours. Nevermind the rest of the bat's message. It alone tempts me to freeze like Maitimo had."

Vëantur gave a wry nod. "Though I feel I would be better faced with yelling, not silence."

Yánadur chortled grimly. "Time to grow proficient in something new, then." He paused, casting an apprehensive glance at Vëantur. "He will now take up the fight, will he not?" The query was rhetorical, but Vëantur still looked at him in question and Yánadur gestured towards the mountains with the parcel. "Moringotto. You heard everything he warned twice now of the consequence if we refuse his terms, refuse now to go across the Sea or into the South." The seed of anxiety grew. "He is going to start fighting back now, is he not?"

Vëantur appeared just as troubled but nodded nonetheless. "Unless he lied about that, too, but I have the feeling that of all things he would want to lie about, that would not be one of them." His grave gaze traveled down Yánadur to his hands and a flicker of disgust flashed across his strong visage. "What do you intend to do with that?"

Yánadur looked down at the parcel, the discomfort resurfacing. "I do not know. At all."

A piercing whistle ripped through the air, jolting them both. They turned in the direction of the mounts and the host of people of Makalaurë's banner. Tyelkormo was standing beside his own steed, beckoning them with an impatient wave.

"Valar forbid us to become the next delay," Vëantur spoke drolly. Yánadur grunted, walking with him away from the thickets.


	18. Fellow Thralls

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 **Chapter 18:** **  
** **Fellow Thralls**

Maitimo squeezed his eyes shut as the Orc-speaker yanked him forward with his unrelenting grip on the bonds, snapping Maitimo's arms. He smothered a broken cry at the spike of fire that shot through the joints of his elbows and shoulders. Searing pain shot up his left leg as he hurriedly caught his balance on his lame foot, but several Orcs were there to haul him upright. Again. Push him forward. Keep him moving. The ends of his hair brushed along his neck as he was jolted back and forth. He could feel them. The edges brushing erratically against the base of his neck and tops of his shoulders, many of them catching in the sweat that matted his skin. With every flight of stairs they ascended, the dingy strands flew forward and back like a broken pendulum and he could feel it all over again.

The trill of yips from the torch-bearer ahead was all the warning he had before he was shoved by three pairs of hands into the wall at his left. He grunted as he slammed into it, an expulsion of air bursting from his lips with a brief cry as he landed against his rib. He tried to balance on his one good foot, but the angle was awkward and he collapsed against the ground, shooting his hands out to stop from toppling sideways. He cringed as he pushed himself upright, his body making it quickly known that his left shoulder blade had taken the brunt of the impact. Orc-speech reverberated in the misshapen, low-ceilinged tunnel and he opened his eyes just in time to see the Orc-speaker pushing Orcs aside to approach him, his face as unreadable as ever.

The Orc-speaker reached out and Maitimo glared, gritting his teeth as he slammed both fists against the back of the extended hand in a rapid, swinging arch. The smack echoed in the tunnel, but before the sound could finish ricocheting off the walls, the Orc-speaker rounded up his other hand just as rapidly and slapped Maitimo across the face.

Maitimo's head slammed back against the wall from the force of the strike, his ear ringing, and the whole left side of his face immediately throbbed to life as his head wound once again pounded away. He cringed again with a small yelp breaking from his throat, closing his eyes as nausea briefly washed over him. Valar, not nausea. Not now!

The corners of the Orc-speaker's mouth ticked down, his diaphanous eyes somehow dilating even in the torchlight. He produced a knife, its iron edge glinting. "Fool away if you want to be cut," he growled with a flick of the blade. He reached down, clasping the inflexible rope in his claws and began to hew away at the underside of the rope with the knife. The cold metal brushed against the sensitive skin of the insides of his wrists, contrasted by the hot blood that dribbled down from where the blade nicked once or twice.

The bindings came free with a snap and Maitimo's hands flew to his hair. He heard the rumbling laughter of the Orc-speaker above him as he hunched over and Maitimo's fingers scrabbled at the strands more frantically. His chest tightened as a choked sob knotted up in his throat, mouth falling open as a slight tremble wracked across his lips. He combed his fingers over and over through his hair, the small hitch of his breath coming faster at how quickly his knuckles met empty air. His hair….Oh, Valar, his hair was gone. He pressed his hands against his head, moisture stinging his eyes. It was gone!

"Up!"

Maitimo bit off another wail as his cracked rib was kicked. His hands now flew to his ribcage as he clenched his jaw, waiting for the pain to subside. But before it could, the Orc-speaker grabbed him by the throat and forced him up the wall, back grating along the gritty stone, until he rose to a stand. Maitimo sent him a lethal glare. What, was there not enough hair anymore to grab into his fist? Maitimo bit his tongue, focusing on hobbling on one foot, the left one barely brushing the ground. And his hands, he suddenly realized, wincing at the fire they flared up with now that the blood was rushing back without reprieve. Valar, he could barely bend his fingers!

"Move!" The Orc-speaker clouted him on the back of his head. Maitimo lunged at him but the surrounding Orcs grabbed his arms in vice-like grips before he could, turning him around and forcing him up the next winding stairwell. But the first glimpse of a response finally appeared in the ghastly angles of the Orc-speaker's visage, a look of humored indulgence that suggested that the mere thought that an Elf could dominate him was laughable, especially in his wounded state, and it only made Maitimo fume more when he had to acknowledge that it probably was. The Orc-speaker followed close in his wake, that unholy speech falling from his mouth again. Disgust flitted across Maitimo's face as the Orcs answered, though his heart still pounded a little harder. What were they saying? It had to be about him. What did they say?

Maitimo stumbled up the crooked steps, eyes flying around frantically. Where were they taking him? He could barely see anything in the sparse torchlight. Just as it had been to the Nethermost Hall, they now went up and up. Flight after flight of twisting stairs. Left and right and down a short flight only to go up again. Maitimo's eyes flicked around faster, but all these quarried walls looked the same. Valar, where were they taking him? He squirmed in the grip of the Orcs, twisted away at the feeling of chilly air brushing against his nether regions, but he could not cover himself for all that he wrenched his arms to try. They jerked him onward, but these passages were unending. Curse it all, where were they taking him?

He did not have to wait much longer to find out.

There was light up ahead, bright light that emerged from an opening in the left side of the tunnel. And by the illumination of the crimson glow that far superseded the torch's flickering, Maitimo could now see that the tunnel had widened and grown in height, tapering off in dimensions into the tail of dark tunnel behind him and the yawning abyss of black that ate up the stairs. But Maitimo stared in abject wariness as the light grew in intensity.

For a moment he thought it might have been a campfire, even a brushfire, but this glow of light was far too steady and consistent to bear any resemblance to those things, let alone the bobbing and dancing flames of a torch. His eyes widened as he was forced closer. Valar, what he thought had been a mere opening in the tunnel was in fact a gaping mouth in the rock wall, leading into what was clearly a cavern or an underground pocket, like air bubbles trapped within a body of water. Two tunnels branched off from the cavern's mouth and Maitimo fleetingly thought that if the one he was walking through now went down, maybe the other one went up. Upward. To the surface. To that Tunnel. To outside. But that desperately blossoming hope dwindled into a wave of dejection when he remembered that the Orc-speaker had never led him near this glowing light during their descent to the Nethermost Hall. He was somewhere else.

A blast of heat came from said mouth, so broiling that the stale air of the tunnel shimmered with it where shone the ample light. It reminded Maitimo of his father's forge, of the pulsing heat that came and went in rolling surges when standing in front of the open door. Before he could meditate any further on it, they rounded the bend of the mouth.

There was a barking growl behind him before his arms were released. And he was shoved forward with a powerful thrust to his back.

Maitimo gasped, taken aback by the unexpected shove, which quickly turned into alarm when his foot met nothing but air. There were half a dozen steps in front of him, broad and unevenly hewn from the bedrock, and Maitimo stumbled on the first one. The loss of balance, forced momentum, and having no choice but to take the next step on his lame foot sent him falling completely. He rolled down the rest of the way, the unforgiving stairs feeling like hammers against his body. Maitimo froze, gasping when he came to a stop at the bottom. He bared his teeth, muscles tensing as he absorbed the waves of pain that rolled over him. Valar, it hurt!

Noise dredged his focus up: the humming sound of burning fire that only came from a fierce source of fuel, and quieter sounds he could not identify. And talking. Very un-Orcish talking.

His eyes snapped open and he rose with frenzy to a stand, or what could be misconstrued as a stand. He stood on his right foot, his left foot barely brushing the gritty floor, and leaned on the stairs.

But his eyes widened and shock stole over him.

Elves. Elves littered the cavern, which he realized a moment later to truly be a forge. A massive one. The cavern was domed and wide, so colossal in its vast and rounded heights that he wagered all of his father's house could fit in here and there would still be ample room. It did not have the impeccable curvature of the Nethermost Hall, but rather a bulbous rotundity that stretched to a blunt end where there was another mouth in the wall. Oval and wide, it led into two more caverns, though Maitimo could barely determine their dimensions from here, only that they were open and dark, absent of the fire that floodlit this cavern. This cavern….

Maitimo eyes traveled back and forth, growing wider and his eyebrows drew together. Elves….There had to be at least fifty of them in here. In pairs, some in groups of three, though most moved around the smithy by themselves. But there had to be at least a hundred bloomeries spread throughout the cavern, each reaching and even surpassing the height of an Elf, and they all belched black smoke from their tops despite so vastly outnumbering the Elves monitoring them. Elves moved between and around the clay structures, their steps more staggering than not from how hastily they walked. Most, if not all of their hands and forearms were filthily blackened, and several Elves bore on their backs or dragged behind them deposits of granular rock so black that it could be nothing else but charcoal, all the while others carried another coarse rock shot with flecks of lighter grey or auburn that sparkled under the bloomeries' glowing fires.

Maitimo stared at them, widened eyes flying from one Elf to another, taking in their lithe and sinewy forms and dark manes of hair. His brow creased more deeply as he gave an absent shake of his head in rapidly rising bewilderment. How was this possible? This could not be right. He had witnessed himself all those Noldor die at the appointed place, could still hear their screams and wails as they were slain. But it was not until one of these strange Elves looked at him, and then another and another, that the realization hit him. The realization that these Elves were not Noldor at all.

He stared, his heart seizing up in his chest.

Oh Valar….

Maitimo stumbled back. His eyes were fixated on the Elves as he retreated from them with a hobbled limp, nearly falling over with each step of his left foot. And he did fall, landing with a painful crash on the edge of the lower step. But he rounded the stairs, scooting along the ground with his hands and right leg while one hand scrabbled in search for the wall behind him. His breathing came fast, his hands taking on a perceptible tremble and his heart pounding wildly against his ribcage as his gaze flicked from one face to the next. He reached the wall, bruising his knuckles from how anxiously he groped for it, and he hauled himself back to lean against the rock and its sharp, miniscule ridges, drawing his legs up closer to his body.

Maitimo shook his head, unable to rip his eyes away from them. Blessed stars, these were Moriquendi! Valar, he could recognize them now. They did not house the Light that had been in those three score Noldor. But they did exude that very same fey and numinous aura that they had seen in the Mithrim when first found by them in the rolling hills, a subtle nuance akin to the dark beauty of how a multitude of stars would appear through a wall of mist.

But by all of Arda, just what were Elves of Endórë doing in these caves? _Why_ were they even here? He stared at the bloomeries, at the deposits of minerals so many of them were lugging across the cavern. What were they even smelting? He recalled the name of this underground fortress, recognized now the glinting in some of that rock and knew it had to be iron. But….He shook his head. Just _what?_

Several of the Elves were looking at him now, discreetly peering around bloomeries or with a subtle turning of their eyes from where they bowed their heads over their work. But one by one they looked and did not look away, some whispering to each other and some doing double takes before their gazes fixated on him. Maitimo swallowed, the dryness of his throat making him double the effort. He drew his legs up closer under the rapt attention of so many, feeling suddenly very aware of his nakedness.

And how he was apparently the only one in such a clothes-less state. All the Moriquendi were clothed, at least in some manner, though their garments were poorer than any he had ever laid sight on, shoddy and looking to carry several yéni worth of wear. They were better suited for what a farmer or a shepherd might don and only as a last resort. Most of their leggings had been torn at the knee and maybe only half actually wore shirts. But even those Elves glistened with sweat just as greatly as those without one, a sheen coat of moisture on their forearms, chests, and in the hollows of their throats. Even from here he could see the streaks of filth along their brows, the fatigue in their faces, though that fatigue was currently overtaken by the visible shock that they were ogling him with. But like him, none of them wore footwear of any kind, all barefoot and he could only imagine how blackened the soles of their feet must be.

Maitimo shifted uncomfortably against the ground, wincing as the grit tore into his buttocks. He wrapped his arms around himself, bringing his legs closer. Curse it all, why did they all stare at him like that?

Someone started to approach him.

One of the Elves had finally stirred himself from his immobilized state. Maitimo's eyes snapped over to the Moriquendë and he shifted to ready himself to leap to a stand, though he did not move more than brace himself against the ground. The Elf was dripping with sweat, his dark hair limp with grime and the delicate structure of his face showing more prominently under his skin than it should have. His tattered shirt was streaked with black, the edges of his leggings fraying.

Maitimo regarded him warily. Sweet Yavanna, the look on the Elf's worn face was so disturbing. It was the same expression he had seen on Telperinquar's face when the child had seen the multitude of white cascades for the first time in that massive cleft of waterfalls they had traversed after departing Losgar. He only remembered the child's particular expression of wonder because it was one of the few things that had made his Atar's mouth briefly tighten into the first ghost of a genuine smile as he took hold of Telperinquar's little hand to pull his stunned grandson forward. And all the while Telperinquar had stared at the waterfalls with his mouth gaping open and the exact same expression that was gracing this Moriquendë's face now. Only there was something more in the Elf's gaze, a hunger or maybe even a longing that he could not place and that made Maitimo shiver. Glancing towards the others, he saw that many of the Elves were regarding him in the same fashion.

He swallowed again.

The Moriquendë stepped closer and Maitimo listed away from him, looking the Elf up and down. The Elf stopped at his reaction but continued to approach after only a moment of hesitation, coming slower this time with a caution in his movement better suited for drawing near to a wounded animal. Though concern now entered the strange Elf's silvery-blue eyes, that same wondrous expression still did not leave his face. Or lessen. Maitimo leaned further away when the Elf came within arm's distance, his eyebrows drawing down over an apprehensive glare. By Aulë, why was he looking at him like that?

The Moriquendë held up his hands, as though assuring him he had no need to fear. Maitimo was briefly distracted by his palms, doing a double take at the blisters that covered them beneath the smears of soot, and he could swear he saw red intermixed with the black along his fingers. The Elf slowly lowered himself to the floor, his thighs quaking as he did and never removing his penetrating gaze from Maitimo as he kneeled down, dark locks falling over his slumped shoulders. Though he looked like he was attempting to relax against his heels, he still leaned forward as if he could not resist to, as if he were battling the temptation to crawl closer to Maitimo than he already had, and that pure expression of disbelieving wonder intensified. Maitimo shifted again, glancing away only to look back, feeling suddenly very much like the cut gems doomed to undergo the thorough inspection of his father's eye. He shifted again.

The Moriquendë looked him up and down and Maitimo fought the urge to cover himself. But the Elf apparently ignored his discomfort because his soft eyes roamed over his skin. Over his ghastly-looking ankle and chafed wrists and the mass of bruises on his ribs, across the ring of discoloration along his throat, passing over his chest, and lastly over his shorn hair with slight amazement to settle on his face. The Elf's eyes were wide, growing wider as he studied Maitimo's own eyes.

Maitimo froze, seriously beginning to question if something was wrong with him.

"Elo!" the Moriquendë breathed. "Ai hanno i elenath od elbereth!" He crawled closer on his knees, that awe-like desperation lighting up his face even more. "Man i eneth dhîn? Tolodh o dor-rodyn, uin belain lennen? Tellinodh edeledog men?"

Maitimo's eyes widened and he stared at him, mouth falling slightly open. He blinked. "Ah…I – ah–" He cleared his throat, working his tongue in his mouth. He took a quick breath. "Ah…I do not speak Mithrimin." He enunciated each word slowly and carefully and nodded in satisfaction after the last syllable, knowing he knew how to correctly say that much in Mithrimin. Valar, it had been one of the first things his father managed to piece together for all of them to say!

The Elf frowned at him, his face scrunching up. "Mithrimin?"

Maitimo stared again. Oh, that was not good. He felt a brief flash of aggravation at the clear suggestion in the Elf's tone that 'Mithrimin' was not what these Moriquendi called their language. But then he remembered that the Mithrim they met in the north hills of Hísilómë had never actually told the Noldor what name they called their tongue. His father had eventually categorized it as _Mithrimin_ simply for the sake of having a name to refer to it with. He cleared his throat again, rolling his lips against each other as he gestured hopelessly in the air. "I do not speak…your…." He faltered again, biting off a curse. Damn all evolution of speech to have happened, how did one say 'language' in this Moriquendi language? He gestured to the Elf and then towards his own mouth. "I do not speak your…your… _lambë!_ " he eventually said, using their Quenya for 'language' with an edge of desperation. Valar, he prayed the word was a cognate like the few they had so far gleaned were. " _Lambë! Lambelë!_ Me. No. You _lambë!_ " he ended emphatically with a sharp gesture towards himself, towards the Elf, and then to his mouth.

The Moriquendë narrowed his eyes, tilting his head. "Lam?" He gestured towards his own mouth.

Maitimo twisted his jaw. Hm. That did sound similar enough. He gave a cautious nod. "Yes."

"Edhellen?"

Maitimo blinked. He gave a tight nod. "Sure."

He spoke that in Quenya, but the Moriquendë clearly had no trouble interpreting his voicing of the single word, for his face scrunched up again. This time with incredulity. "Ú-istodh edhellen?"

Maitimo dropped his head down with an abject sigh, pressing his lips together as he clenched his left hand. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and readying his mouth and brain to try again. Valar, these words did not roll easily off the tongue. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, his head snapped up and he stared at the Elf more intensely. Oh! Edhellen! _Edhel! Edhel_ meant 'Elf'! The Mithrim had constantly referred to them as that, or something like that, until his father and Yánadur and anyone else learnt in the lore of tongues, himself included, had impressed on that strange folk that they were Noldor, and so called the same. And if the rest was a dialectal suffix akin to the likes of their own for a reference to Quenya vernaculars, then that must be the name they gave their language! These Moriquendi had to have simply derived the name of their language from 'Elves' in the same way the Amaneldi derived Quenya from 'Quendi'. He felt a swell of elation at the sudden intuition, though part of him still sighed and rolled his eyes. Valar, it was ridiculous to grow so ecstatic over something so small, especially when he knew his father would have probably dissected it within a moment of hearing it.

Maitimo nodded more enthusiastically this time. "I do not speak… _Edhellen_." He said the word slowly, wincing at how awful his pronunciation sounded. "I speak Quenya."

The Elf tilted his head the other way. "Quenya?" The word sounded just as mangled on his tongue as _Edhellen_ had on his.

Maitimo nodded again. He tapped his chest, then his mouth. "Me _language_. Quenya." He then launched into a quick sentence or two in Quenya so that the Moriquendë might hear it himself.

The Elf reared back at the onslaught of words, his face a mask of mild amazement, and Maitimo nodded a little more insistently. "Quenya." He tapped his chest. "I am Maitimo. Maitimo! A Noldo. Noldo. I am a Noldo."

The Moriquendë said nothing at that, but his face took on a look of concentration that silenced Maitimo. He held his breath. Come now, he pled, eyes flicking from one misty blue orb to the other in search of some glimmer, a mere shift in the Elf's expression that suggested he was not coming across as the fool he certainly must sound like.

The Moriquendë blinked several times, a glint appearing in his dim eyes as they narrowed again. "Gold?" he voiced slowly, a suspicious lilt to his tone.

Maitimo made a face. _Gold?_ What in all of Arda was that? And more to the point, how did that have anything to do with 'Noldo'? Maitimo's eyes flicked away from the expectant gaze of the Elf, looking around for inspiration with a frown. But his mind was blank. Quenya did not even have that strange 'g' consonant, at least no words that began with it, and he had not even the first inkling what that might mean in this _Edhellen_. Maitimo gritted his teeth, suppressing the desire to yell at the Elf. It was not his fault, but Valar, just what did that have to do with a Noldo? Gold. Noldo. Gold. Noldo. His lips moved silently with the two words. Go- His mind lit up. Oh! From the very root _Noldor_ was derived from in the first place! _Ngolod_ , he remembered now. It must have progressed down through the annals of history in this washed out language with little change as the Quenya rendition had. His mind was unwittingly taken back to the bygone memories of his youth, to all the evolution that had occurred during his own early lifetime. It was a cognate after all, he realized with a wave of relief. Or at least he thought so.

He looked again at the Elf. "Yes," he nodded with a slight quaver to his voice. " _G-Gold_." He made another face. How did they even work that weird sound in their throat? He felt like a frog. " _Gold_. Elf. Noldo."

The Moriquendë regarded him curiously for a moment before he launched into another spouting of his language so rapidly that Maitimo could not catch even a single word. He turned away with a long breath, collapsing back against the wall with a small grunt of pain, bringing his knees almost to his chest. Valar, why did this Elf speak on as though he would understand? He closed his eyes, bowing his head into his hands as he ran the pads of his fingers back and forth through his roots. A brief swell of horror rose again when he felt the ends of his hair dance along his skin. He heard the Moriquendë falter in his softly spoken Edhellen before falling silent in full, but he just wanted the Elf gone. One moment. He needed just one moment to be alone with himself. One moment to think. Just think.

Fingers brushed along his forearm.

Maitimo jumped, eyes snapping open and muscles going rigid. The Elf quickly withdrew his hand as though burned, holding up both hands again in that same commiserating gesture. But the look of understanding that Maitimo had been hoping for all along was finally there.

Maitimo frowned at him. "What?" He inwardly berated himself, repeating it again in Edhellen.

The Elf did not speak. He only moved his hands in a recognizable gesture to stay put. He then removed his shirt, pulling it over his head with three quick tugs. A broken cry tore from his throat as he did. Maitimo watched him in confusion, but his eyes widened as the Moriquendë's torso was bared in the glow of the fires. His collarbones protruded dangerously and his ribcage was visible even along the center of his chest, but his torso and arms were marked with welts and abrasions. So many of them, with several overlapping. A few gently bled or were hardened with blood, but otherwise his skin appeared to be free of the red substance, though he was so battered along his ribs and stomach with bruises that it was difficult to tell. The Elf fiddled with his shirt, sending muscles along his lithe arms and chest flexing and bulging, and even they stood out too well against the skin. Maitimo's gaze flew over his body, unable to rip his eyes away.

Valar….

The Moriquendë's face contorted with the agony of the cry, but Maitimo could tell he was trying – without success – to suppress it. A twitch of a smile flitted across the Elf's mouth as he held the shirt out towards Maitimo, his hands shaking. He waited expectantly, but Maitimo did not so much as twitch.

"Den mabo," he said quietly, proffering the shirt again. "Den mabo." He pushed the garment towards him until Maitimo grabbed hold of it and the Elf gestured towards Maitimo's waist. "Hamp hammo i rhaw lanc dhîn anlen." He mimicked wrapping around his own waist as he spoke.

Maitimo understood then and his chest tightened as he took the shirt, his lips pressing together as he gazed down at it. The billowing garment looked to be only a few tugs away from tearing apart completely. It was darkened with filth and streaks of soot, stained with the subtle pigment of yellow that came only after an abnormal amount of sweating, and there were spatters of what he knew to be blood along the backside of the shirt. But he clenched it in his fists, thumbs running along the soft weave. Moisture stung the corners of his eyes and he wiped at them furiously, disgusted with himself.

The Moriquendë was still watching him, eyebrows slightly raised in question. Maitimo returned the pitiful attempt at a smile, nodding his gratitude. He opened his mouth to speak.

 _Bang!_

The sound boomed in the cavern and the Elf jumped, the movement so fierce that it sent Maitimo jumping as well. "Boe i gwaen," the Elf tossed his way in a quivering whisper, his face panicked. "Herin i hebodh i dîn dhîn, hîr vaer. Goheno nin an i dhŷl nîn!" He did not wait for a reply before he began moving away with a jittery haste. Maitimo watched the Moriquendë in surprise as the Elf shuffled to a stand, or tried to. His legs quivered fiercely halfway up and he fell back to his knees, but not a heartbeat passed before he began crawling away instead on hands and knees, hurrying over to a deposit of iron ore that lay unattended on the floor not a dozen paces away.

Maitimo frowned at his retreating back, shock stealing over him as he saw the many stripes that crisscrossed over his shoulder blades and down his spine, several that still gleamed with the seeping of fluids. He tore his eyes away, searching instead for the source of the noise that had sounded like a crashing of rocks, but all he could see was that none of the Elves were looking at him anymore. All were moving frantically, some nearly toppling over under the weight of their loads with how fast they hurried. The noise evidently meant something to them. But he saw nothing to cause them to be so panicked. Not even an Orc.

Maitimo's frown deepened, eyes narrowing in sudden suspicion. He glanced behind him at the smithy's mouth, peering through it into the yawning shadows of the forked tunnel. Empty. Where was the Orc-speaker? Where were any of the Orcs for that matter? Even one? He could not see any within the cavern, though if they were nearby otherwise, his ability to sense them was too warped by the overwhelming oppression of Darkness that shrouded every crevice of this place. But he could not see one Orc. Was that normal? That could not be normal.

Maitimo rose from the floor just enough to tie the shirt around his waist, peering around more intently as he did so. But no, not one Orc or any other fell beast of Moringotto was in this smithy. So why did these Moriquendi now act as if there were? This was the first time he felt the thorough absence of the Orc-speaker and part of Maitimo wanted to relish in that personal liberation upon his fëa. But his heart was pounding in his chest, a sense of incredulity rising as he continued to look around the forge. They just left him here? Why would they? What was he supposed to do, and why was the Orc-speaker not here grabbing him by the hair for relinquishing himself to a corner?

Maitimo double-knotted the shirt's sleeves at his hip, ignoring the painful twinge in his left wrist as he looked around in search of that skittish Elf who had given him the garment. The deposit of iron was gone, but he could not see him anywhere in this forest of bloomeries, if the Moriquendë had actually disappeared into them and the many shifting bodies and not just scampered off somewhere else completely.

He collapsed back against the wall, unable to wholly snuff the pang of loneliness that dwarfed him all of the sudden. With one dark-haired Elf after another, no defining braids upon their strands or distinctive apparel upon their backs, he questioned the likelihood of ever being able to locate that Moriquendë again, because for some inexplicable reason, he wanted to. His gaze flicked from one Elf to another, watching how their backs bent and limp hair swayed as they worked the bloomeries, shoveling heaps of charcoal to working the billows while others pounded with mallets at the shingled blooms freshly removed from the furnace, masses that glowed with a pulsing red. Maitimo's eyes widened at how closely their hands hovered near the blistering mass of iron and slag. Valar, if that skittish Elf had even once hammered the sponge iron with the recklessness these Elves were doing it with, it was no wonder his hands had been in the shape they were. Why were they being so foolish?

No, he inwardly rebuked, ripping his eyes away from the Moriquendi. He needed to think. Right now just think. But his eyes flicked back to the Elves, his brow furrowing deeper. Moriquendi….Not Noldor, but Moriquendi. The shock at it riding through his veins was still great, but the disgust at himself for being shocked at all was gradually becoming greater.

Disgust at himself, at his brothers, at every member of their tightly knit councils….No one had ever questioned why Thangorodrim had been given its name in this Moriquendi's Edhellen, not Quenya, when the Noldor were the only Elves Moringotto had yet quarreled with. Or so they had thought. Even when Yánadur had been dissecting the name no one questioned it! Nor had anyone questioned why Orcs spoke their broken words in this particular language, not Quenya, when the Noldor were the only Elves those gnarled beasts had yet been made to speak with. Or so they had thought. He collapsed further against the wall. _Past evidence has taught us that you Elves seem to believe fighting your fate will free you from it_. So spoke the Orc-speaker before he had tossed him like a limp ragdoll against that boulder, Maitimo now recalled, said rib pulsing its agony as if in response to the dredging of that memory. He had not thought twice on the significance of those words. Nor had he paid deeper thought to when the Orc-speaker spoke of how he headed to the _core of_ _Elven bane_ just before running the poll of that axe into his instep. How he said that Elves were predictable. He had not even wondered how the Maia could have spoken of it so casually if the Noldor were the only Elves he had first dealt with. Bile churned low in his gut and Maitimo crossed his arms over his stomach. Valar, he had not thought twice.

A horn blast sounded.

Maitimo looked up, muscles tensing as the rough note on the Orc-horn was repeated. But not again. Two blows. The noise was not as startling as that unknown slamming of rock had been, for it was a distant blare. From up high. Maitimo frowned as he stared at the ceiling, eyes narrowing as he peered through the smog of black fumes that plumed from the bloomeries to fill the vast heights like clouds. He almost gasped aloud. That ceiling was not even enclosed! The dome of the cavern in fact tapered into what looked like a funnel, an inverted funnel that had to have a diameter of at least fifty paces wide. Maitimo made a face as he studied the hole, flabbergasted as to its purpose. Maybe if the smoke did not clog it up like a chimney he would be able to garner an idea.

Oh. A chimney.

Maitimo was distracted from it as the Moriquendi began to shift in a new manner again and he froze as he watched them stand erect, dropping their loads to the floor, a weary set to their shoulders that made them slouch in a way wholly unbecoming of their lithe forms. Obviously two horn blasts meant something to them because they all collectively began walking towards the forge's mouth. Towards him. Maitimo tensed further, shifting to prepare to rise or move away as they came closer, every pair of eyes quick to turn on him and remain there. They all stared at him. Maitimo listed away from their disturbingly rapt attention that they did not even bother to try and hide. Why did they look at him so? Yes, he had copper hair, an anomaly even in Valinor, but Valar, did that really warrant the astonished, nearly awed regard they were paying to his nude form? He could see their lips moving, could hear their soft mutters and he strained his ears but could recognize none of the words they were mumbling to each other. Though words that sounded like _athal_ and _galu_ and _lachend_ were repeated several times, and even something that sounded like _lacheneb_ and _eluthingol_ among a few. Maitimo frowned at them, but none of those words even remotely resembled anything like the list of similar Quenya he was running through his head.

He crossed his arms tighter over his stomach, fighting the urge to shift away but watched the Moriquendi from the corner of his eye. They were leaving the smithy. Maitimo's frown deepened. Was he supposed to go with him? What was happening?

One Elf slowed on the stairs, stepping closer to Maitimo. He watched him and the Elf came to an abrupt halt when he met his eyes. The dark-haired Elf took half a step back, as if cowered, but he beckoned Maitimo with a sharp gesture of his hand. "Tolo!" he urged, gesturing more fervently towards himself and the Moriquendi filing past him. His face was open and sincere and Maitimo hesitated at the insistence he saw in it. "Tolo! Boe i teli adh men. Avdortho si, hîr nîn!" He gestured more frantically, using both hands now.

Maitimo hesitated, wondering if he should again attempt to communicate, but the Elf's wild gesture spoke for itself well enough. After another brief moment of hesitation he rose from the floor, leaning heavily against the wall as he hobbled on one foot. He moved forward, limping as he put the barest of pressure on his left foot and ascended the stairs in a disgraceful climb, half hopping and half limping with his right hand scrambling for some purchase on the wall. He half expected for the Elf to lend a helping hand, but he only watched Maitimo, following close in his wake as they passed through the mouth. Discomfort wormed through Maitimo as he watched many of the Elves veer away from him, several eyes widening at what he assumed had to be his substantial height, but no one spoke to him. Maitimo nearly grunted in pain with each step, fire shooting up his left leg to settle in his rib, but he managed to keep the pace the Moriquendi set. His eyes flew around as they entered the dark, realizing that they turned at the fork to enter the same tunnel that the Orc-speaker had led him out of.

Oh no, not again. He started to turn around, but the Elves behind him kept him hobbling forward. Valar, he did not want to go back! Did they not know what lay this way?

But then several Orc growls echoed loudly in the tunnel. Many of the Elves began to hustle towards the tunnel's right side, Maitimo being ruthlessly guided with them and, as they rounded the sharp bend, any trickle of light from the forge fires disappeared and Maitimo was plunged into pitch darkness.


	19. I do not speak Edhellen

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 **Chapter 19:** **  
** **I do not speak Edhellen.**

Maitimo could not see anything. His eyes widened in result, straining to the point of hurting, but no matter how quickly he swiveled his gaze around he could make out absolutely nothing in the dark, not even a shadow of a shape beyond the Moriquendi. Because he could see the Elves, thanks to the faint and disconcertingly dim glow emitting from their bodies, but it was not enough to illuminate even the proximate walls of the tunnel. Orcs were here, their unique chatter echoing so wildly off the walls that it was impossible for Maitimo to pinpoint their exact location. But they were here, mostly behind them and several up ahead, moving with the Elves and even jostling them, or so Maitimo assumed since he was shoved more than once by the bumping of a nearby Elf. Maitimo wondered what had happened to their soft murmurs, wondered if there was some unspoken rule to be silent in the presence of Orcs. But he could hear their sharp breathing. He scrabbled both hands along the right wall, focusing on the task of just not falling on his face, which creased with a cringe at each merciless left-footed step. But several Elves grabbed hold of his arms each time he nearly did, hauling him back up and ushering him along. Valar, how could they see in this accursed dark? Walking and walking and rounding corners, they did not slow down even for the sharpest of turns or steepest of stairs.

When Maitimo saw the torch, he only just managed to keep back the small noise of relief. It was mounted on a bracket nailed into the wall. Another tunnel branched off at the torch to head down even more stairs and the group of Elves veered towards them. Down more stairs, to the left, round a bend to the right, another left….Maitimo's head began to spin. This could not be the way to the Nethermost Hall! He had never encountered a flaming torch on his way up or down with the Orc-speaker. But there was no sense of hesitation among the Moriquendi. They appeared to know where they were going. Well, as long as they were not fighting the direction they were hustled along he supposed he could trust them that much.

He almost immediately retracted that opinion when they came to another fork in the tunnel with another dancing torch as its divider because, this time, the group of Elves began to split between the two, half turning to go left while many kept on going straight. Maitimo faltered, gaze moving between the two tunnels. Which way was he supposed to go?

An Elf grabbed his arm and yanked him to the left, murmuring something harshly in his ear. Maitimo sent him a mild glare. No, he had no clue what had been said, but the tone of voice had been clear enough. Sort of. A shiver wracked through his frame. Sweet Yavanna, it was cold.

The end of the tunnel came into view. An actual end, he saw, not just another fork. But he frowned. It was another pocket like there was in that smithy, though on a lesser scale. Another torch was lit from within and he could see even from this distance that the dimensions of the vault were far smaller. And as he walked through the mouth of the vault, he saw he was correct. He stumbled to a halt, moving to the side as more Elves entered, looking around and seeing that it was a dead end, a pocket with no other exit to it than the one he just came through.

He sighed, uncertain how he should feel. He watched the other Elves, observing how they moved about with casualness, almost a familiarity to their stride and how they appeared more calm and subdued than before, their frames no longer taut with that underlying sense of distress.

Maitimo twisted his jaw. Hm. This pocket evidently brought them some level of comfort, though looking around at the dingy and barren walls he could not fathom why.

A cringing creak of unoiled metal on metal echoed in the vault and Maitimo jumped, spinning around just in time to see a heavy door slam shut over the entrance. Maitimo gaped at the broad slab of metal but then froze. No bang of a lock bolting shut followed. Maitimo gaped for a whole other reason. No lock? Were Orcs truly that stupid? But no sound of a lock came. Elation flared up in his chest but died just as quickly when he saw in the torchlight that there was no handle on this side of the door. Just a tall wall of iron. All right, that was clever, he conceded bitterly. He would credit Moringotto that much.

The Elves were sitting or collapsing to the ground, whispers passing between some of them while others continued to shoot discreet glances at Maitimo himself. Feeling a shaft of annoyance, he ignored them and reached out to a nearby Elf, tapping his arm. The Elf turned and leapt away, his watery eyes slightly widening. Maitimo shifted to balance better on his right foot. "What–" He hesitated, remembering his father's comment that alluded to variations of that word being used depending on the question being asked. He shook his head. Not much he could do when he only knew the word itself. "What…this?" He gestured around the vault. "This. You. Me. What?" The Elf's eyebrows arched up high on his forehead and Maitimo bit back an exasperated huff. "I do not speak Edhellen," he nearly barked. He gestured more sharply around the small cave. "What this?"

The Elf's expression was open and only grew more dubious with each new sentence that fell from Maitimo's lips. His brow creased, eyes traveling up and down Maitimo as he swept loose hair behind his ears. He gave a halfhearted shrug. "Lostam si."

Maitimo closed his eyes, jaw slightly clenching as he took a steady breath. "I do not speak–"

"Araw veleg! Man thellinodh ir pedodh i ú-istodh Edhellen?" A pause. A long one. Maitimo stared. When the silence finally became awkward the Elf released a small sigh, gnawing on his lip. "Lostam si," he repeated more cogently, his words slow and insistent as he gestured around at the other Elves.

Maitimo hesitated. "Lostam?"

The Elf nodded. "Lostam si," he said simply, gesturing again to where many Elves were sitting or lying, many of whom were currently watching their exchange without even trying to be subtle about it. "Losto, hîr nîn." He put his grime-streaked hands together as if in supplication, tilting his head and resting his clasped hands against one cheek. "Lostam."

Sleep! Maitimo bit back a despondent cry, briefly desiring to bang his head against a wall. Valar, how stupid did he sound to these Moriquendi? If he had simply _waited_ and observed these Elves in silence, he would have eventually figured out that this was a place for sleeping! Not some holding cell or…whatever else. How exhausted must he be that he could not even assume it might be a sleeping chamber? Several Elves were already sitting, several more lying down….He ran his hands over his face, turning away from the Elf. "Thank you," he muttered over his shoulder as he went. Damn it all, what a dimwitted fool he must look like!

He looked around the vault before retreating to one of its nooks towards the back, if it could be called a nook. It was more like a slight indentation in the roughly hewn wall, but no Elves were over there. Nor did it look like anyone claimed it. The Moriquendi were huddled in groups of twos or threes, a couple groups consisting of six or ten, most if not all of them exchanging quiet conversation, their voices so soft that Maitimo could not pick out any words with his sensitive hearing, despite their strange syllables. He hobbled around the cave over to the shallow cranny, using the wall as a brace and gritting his teeth as he tried to ignore these Moriquendi. Though they were now more subtle about it, he caught many of them casting glances his way as they talked, some of their curious gazes remaining on him longer than others. Maitimo looked away.

 _Valar_ ….

He lowered himself to the ground, the muscles in his right leg finally beginning to burn, but he collapsed against the grout with a sigh of relief. He rested his head against the wall, heaving in several slow lungfuls of air. Sleep. All right. It was apparently time to sleep. He looked around at the others, seeing how many just simply stretched across the stone floor. How could any of them slip away into rest when it was so accursedly cold? Already he could feel the chill from the rock seeping into his backside and bare back, a clammy discomfort that would undoubtedly give his muscles a deep-set ache by the time he woke up.

If he ever did, that is. Finally resting and left to himself, the exhaustion was mercilessly making itself known on his mind and body. He had not slept since he had awoken on those wastelands, he realized, and that last sleep had been induced by suffocation and a head wound. Over a week ago. He sighed, relaxing his eyes as he shifted to lie prostrate on the floor and nearly moaning in the bliss it granted his body. His head wound flared up as he rested his head against the floor, but he ignored it, ignoring also the hunger pangs that now started to manifest. But though his throat was parched and he craved a mere sip of water something fierce, he knew he was not as thirsty as he ought to be, especially when his last swallow had been before the ambush at the appointed place, now certainly over a week ago. The Orc-speaker really must have forced some manner of drink down his throat while unconscious. Ugh, as if it mattered. He shifted, unable to stir up enough energy to even care.

He waited for unconsciousness to take him again, for that black haze to come over his vision, but his head wound throbbed unrelentingly no matter how he rested his skull against the floor. A perceptible shiver began to race through his limbs and he shifted to curl in on himself, on his right side then left, but then again to his back when his cracked rib screamed at him. He gritted his teeth as he worried his brow, shutting his eyes. Come now, just fall asleep!

Someone tapped his knee.

He snapped his eyes open, stiffening at the sight of another Elf crouched beside him, unerringly similar in face to the Elf he had just been speaking with. A relative, maybe? The Elf's forehead was bruised along the hairline and a tentative look shone in his dark eyes. Maitimo sighed, forcing himself to relax as he lifted himself up on an elbow. "I do not speak–"

"Iston," the Elf interrupted with a quick nod, his gaze full of understanding. The hesitant look now moved to his face as he gestured towards Maitimo, or maybe the gesture was to his head. "Goheno nin, Lachend," he murmured, "ach iuitho i laub dhîn sui pesseg." He gestured further and Maitimo watched the Elf as he pointed at Maitimo's waist and then to his head, touching the draped fabric of the shirt. The Elf looked at him expectantly, but Maitimo could only stare back with a furrowed brow, his gaze flicking to the garment. Something about his shirt and head?

He frowned further. "I do not understand," he muttered stiffly, but though the utterance had been in Quenya the Elf appeared to have no difficulty comprehending what he meant.

The Moriquendë again touched the shirt, lifting the hem. "Laub."

Maitimo nodded after a moment. "Laub," he repeated slowly.

He pointed at Maitimo's head, the floor, and then patted the back of his own. "Pesseg." He pointed to other Elves lying down, many of whom were still watching him, but Maitimo's eyes fixated on how many if not all of them had their own shirts bunched up beneath their heads. Those already without shirts had removed their leggings and done the same, and Maitimo felt himself relax further at how unabashedly they did so.

Maitimo looked back at the Elf, nodding more fully. "Thank you." The Elf nodded and scuttled away to the opposite side of the cave where he lay down close to another who already appeared to be deep in sleep. Maitimo glanced around the pocket again with a mild glare but relented when he saw that most of the Moriquendi had turned their attention away from him to curl in on their sides. Good. Even their quiet murmurs had dissipated until only one or two spoke a word on occasion, and the vault was filled with a deafening silence only broken by the dying flickers of the single torch. An awkward silence. Maitimo made a face at it but rolled on his back and shifted up his hips to unknot and wrestle the shirt from around his waist. Once the garment was pillowed beneath his head, he sighed at the instant relief that swept through the whole of his skull. The pulsing headache did not go completely, but it did diminish enough that he could ignore it.

His heart skipped a beat when an Elf suddenly began to hum. He looked over at the group of Elves towards his left, but he could not discern whom the baritone might belong to. The voice of whoever hummed though was faltering, a melody breaking through sporadically as one might hum beneath his breath but then do so too loudly by accident. It was a tune reminiscent of the songs fashioned among the common folk, but though the raspy voice was as a balm unto Maitimo's ears, it was hardly soothing with its haunting and even forlorn descant. Well, it would have been laughable had it been a merry tune. But shortly after it started, the Elf's humming faded away.

His vision glazed over with blackness and when it cleared away, he jerked at the feeling of an Elf shaking his shoulder.

The Elf jumped at his gasp, snatching his hands away while Maitimo bit back a cry as his rib was unwittingly aggravated. He embraced his side with one arm, glaring at the Elf before his eyes narrowed in realization that the Moriquendë was again one he had never encountered before. The glower returned. What, were they taking turns with him?

"What?" he bit out in muddled Edhellen, shaking his head to clear it of the cobwebs. His body felt like lead as he struggled to haul himself up against the wall. Valar, it could not have been more than a few hours since he had fallen asleep. He ran his hands haggardly over his face, without thought threading them up and through the strands of his hair. He froze when he reached the empty air of their ends, his heart fluttering as he recalled the previous night. He glanced at the Moriquendë, seeing how intently the Elf was still looking at him. Maitimo closed off his expression as he swiftly worked what remained of his hair into a haphazard knot at the back, the motions of his hands rough and stiff.

The Elf shifted back on his knees, beckoning him with both hands. "Tolo, Lachend!"

Maitimo's flying thoughts stopped at the undisguised urgency in his voice and, focusing more keenly on the Moriquendë, Maitimo could see that same suppressed sense of panic in his face. The torch was no longer lit, the cave pocket as plunging a black as the tunnel had been, but not even that hindered the look of the Elf's face. Maitimo shook his head again as he squinted up at him, wincing as the headache returned with a vengeance. "What?"

"Tolo!" the Elf reiterated in a harsh whisper, gesturing more fiercely. He scooted further back on his knees.

 _Tolo_. Maitimo was starting to figure that the word had something to do with coming, or following, or heeding a summons. Or something like that, considering that every time a Moriquendë used that word with him they were beckoning him in some manner and not stopping until he followed. The word was similar enough in Quenya, so maybe it was. He hoped. He glanced around as he belatedly took notice of movement around him. The door was open and the Elves were filing through, many stumbling along the way. Maitimo shifted further, reaching behind him to grab his shirt and working it back around his waist. "Tolo?"

The Elf nodded, rising to a stand where he swayed once or twice. He beckoned him again. "Ú-ídhrathodh dortho si ir in urchin tolir."

Maitimo's eyes jerked up, piercing him with a sharp look. He recognized their word for Orcs in that sentence. But he refrained from glowering at the Moriquendë as he dragged himself up to a stand. These Elves certainly knew by now that his Edhellen was laughable, so why did they still insist on speaking it as if he could deduce anything of what they said? The Elf did not offer a hand as Maitimo used the wall to anchor himself. To the contrary, the Elf actually took a full step back, a glimmer of uncertainty entering his eyes before he turned completely and hastened for the pocket's mouth. Maitimo looked after him in bewilderment. Now what was wrong with the Moriquendë? He sighed, shuffling forward after him with a disgruntled grunt. He had no idea what the issue was now, but he refused to lose the guidance unwittingly provided by these Elves.

He passed through the door and into the tunnel, his nose crinkling at the air's sharp staleness while he used the Elves directly ahead of him as his source of direction. Orcs lined the tunnels, positioned at a standstill at varying intervals where they watched the Elves, their hateful leers passing from one lithe Moriquendë to another while their chattering growls reverberated along the walls. Maitimo looked at those he passed, his body tensing as he waited for them to lunge at him as they had on the wastelands, now free to do so, but the Orcs did nothing except to shuffle where they stood. Maitimo moved passed them, pushing against the wall to aid his limp, but none of the tension left his body as his heart fluttered in his chest. So long as they let him be he had no reason to strike, or so he figured. But the Elves before him were clearly cowed, staying flushed along the right wall as well as they could, as if in fear that the Orcs' reaches were longer than the actual length of their arms. They moved quickly and Maitimo was at pains to move faster. They knew better where to go than he did.

A right turn. A slight left, another right. Maitimo concentrated, but this moved like a winding tunnel more than anything. He dragged the palm of his right hand along the wall, using it for support as much as searching for any abnormalities, much like the unmarked crevice in that Tunnel that had initiated his and the Orc-speaker's descent. He felt nothing beyond ridges and minor fissures, but he had no idea if the left side of the tunnel did indeed have other passageways branching off it.

They reached the end, only to turn a sharp right and he realized with a pitiful swell of satisfaction that this was the junction the Moriquendi had divided themselves between on the way here. As if in proof of it, more Elves were filtering in from the left tunnel, moving with a surety in their step to join them and Maitimo found himself being forced along even faster. Valar, these Elves would just not slow down, even though they looked as tired as he felt. Maitimo ignored the Orcs that still lined the tunnel, climbing the random sets of stairs and straining his focus on moving ahead while he kept his right hand flushed against the wall. His right thigh again began to burn as he used it to haul his weight up the steps. Before long, he nearly stumbled sideways as his hand met empty air and only met wall again after several more steps. It happened twice more. Three times his hand met empty air, passing by gaping holes that were so dark that he could not even see whether they led up or down, though they had to at least be three new tunnels branching off from this main corridor. Maitimo turned his head to peer after one but was ushered along by the Moriquendi. The Moriquendi who, he noticed, only kept moving forward, overstepping those tunnels even though they all remained along the right side. The Elves ahead of him turned right at another junction, this one with two other tunnels branching off.

Maitimo gave a slight nod. Right, slight left, another right, a sharp right, straight three times, right.

But then they came to a winding stairwell, up and up, followed by a left turn? No. Straight. Straight and then a slight right, or maybe this was just another winding tunnel since he could not see any unmarked passageways along the walls like earlier. Straight now. Up and up and up. Down? Maitimo almost fell forward at the sudden drop, but it was only three steps. Constant veering to the right, a sharp left up another crooked stairway….Maitimo gave a fierce shake of his head, blinking several times. Come now, he could do this!

Before he could focus again, they entered the forked, broadened passageway he recognized from yesterday. And sure enough, that persistent glow of the forge fires came into view. Maitimo lost the support of the wall as they passed into the broadened tunnel, his limp becoming more pronounced. The Moriquendi filtered down the stairs into the cavern where many more Elves moved to and fro, working the bloomeries in the exact same manner as those before. But unlike before, many Orcs at least three dozen strong were interspersed along the walls and in between the clay structures, their eyes following the Elves as they wrung the rods in their fists.

The Moriquendi apparently knew where to go since they spread out without hesitation. Maitimo stared after them, confounded. What should he do? Follow one of them? But he froze in his tracks a few paces beyond the last step, staring with unblinking surprise.

The Orc-speaker was just ahead, standing with his eerie stillness while his eyes were trained unwaveringly on Maitimo, the drear light of the furnaces making his appearance even more baleful. The Orc-speaker lifted his chin, his face unreadable, though the corner of his mouth twitched. "Ah. His Majesty can walk." The side of his mouth twitched again but quickly morphed into a feral bearing of teeth as he turned his eyes on the surrounding Moriquendi. He barked out several short and sharp sentences in Edhellen, that strange speech so corrupted on his voice that Maitimo could not make out one word. He cringed slightly, wondering if it sounded as perverted to the Moriquendi as the Orc-speaker's Quenya did for him. But the Elves jumped into action at whatever he said, some stumbling in their haste, all of their gazes to the ground.

The Orc-speaker's eyes snapped back to Maitimo. "And you." He stepped closer. "Of the last to arrive. You had best begin to move faster if you love your skin."

Maitimo scowled at him. "I do not move for you."

The corner of his mouth quirked again as the Orc-speaker peered at him, tilting his head. "You will." His sallow eyes traveled up and down Maitimo, settling on the garment around his waist. His face was indecipherable, but a look passed over it that sent a shiver down Maitimo's spine and he had to resist the urge to back away at the spike of revulsion that suddenly twisted his gut. He must have revealed something of what he felt, however, because the Orc-speaker's eyes traveled back up to his own, the ghost of what was definitely a small smile creasing his mouth. "And very soon, though I shall relay to my Master your words that he may know you move for him, if not yet for those who speak in his name."

Maitimo's eyes widened, a flush of fury rising up through his body. His muscles coiled tight and his fingers twitched as he glowered at the Orc-speaker, nearly shaking. He clenched his jaw and he could feel the strain on the tendons of his neck as he just stopped himself from listing forward. That accursed swine!

The Orc-speaker looked at Maitimo knowingly, that small hint of a smile reappearing again. "Do it," he nearly whispered.

Maitimo stared at him in glowering silence but then scoffed and shook his head, glaring harder. "You wish I would stoop so low," he bit out, though he forced the tautness in his muscles away. "Seek your sport elsewhere."

A pause. The Orc-speaker narrowed his eyes. "Taking the high road now, are we, Kinslayer?"

Maitimo scoffed again, biting back a laugh this time as he worked his jaw. "Do it yourself. If such a word already known to my ears is your lowest blow, you will have to do far worse to make me _do it_."

"Ah, how you still think words have any power in these pits." Another pause, but then the Orc-speaker suddenly chortled as he stepped nearer. "Soon enough I will have hair again to twist in my fist. _Lachend_." He uttered the last with a clear lilt of mockery. "But for now–" The brief end was all the warning Maitimo had before the Orc-speaker surged forward impossibly fast, hand reaching out to grab hold of his throat in that merciless grip of his, his claws puncturing the skin of the ring of bruises still yet visible and yanking Maitimo forward from where he hastily began to list away. "Pray come to your new throne room. Charcoal aplenty in the fuel pit to craft a crown!"

He stiffened and jerked back, but the Orc-speaker's grip did not loosen as he forced him forward. He felt the claws puncture his skin as he fought the hold, but the Orc-speaker's grip was like iron and Maitimo was soon busy with just trying to keep his balance as he was hustled along with no consideration to his limp. Shoveling and crouched Moriquendi turned their heads to look their way as he neared their bloomeries, and he could feel their gazes burning into his back as he passed. But no one extended a helping hand. Valar, no one even shifted away from their stations. And the Orcs jittered away as they watched the Orc-speaker manhandle him, but that was nothing surprising. They probably wished to do it themselves, if they but had the nerve to.

The Orc-speaker led him to the right pocket at the back of the cavern, which had several more curved steps leading down into the cave. With only the release of his throat as forewarning, the Orc-speaker shoved Maitimo through the pocket's mouth with another pound against his back. Maitimo managed to land on the stairs on his feet, but his left foot crumbled immediately beneath him and he fell with a disgraceful tumble, rolling the rest of the way until crashing just beyond the last step. Again. Fire burst from his rib as he rolled over the grit and he lay there immobilized (again), forehead pressed to the ground and face contorted in pain, gasping short bursts of air.

"Lie around and you will find yourself unable to rise!" Maitimo jerked his head around at the vicious shout and the Orc-speaker huffed. "You are no precious gem in this house of fire to be exempt from any link of thralldom's chains."

He turned and left. Maitimo pushed himself up with a grunt to peer through the pocket mouth and watch his retreating back. Elves scurried out of his way, even those who were not in his path and Maitimo could not help but observe the lot of them, his stare fluctuating between confusion and disgust as he felt a mounting sense of incredulity towards the Moriquendi. Valar, the Orc-speaker had not even done anything to warrant such frightened haste and yet these Elves were cowering away as though he had unleashed an unholy rage on them.

The deep rumble of an Orc growl boomed behind him, the sound bouncing off the walls. Maitimo hurried to his feet, twisting to awkwardly stand with his right leg. The Orc-speaker may have done nothing, but these Orcs just might with how they permeated that eagerness to lash out if only given the smallest reason. He turned when he managed to stand erect, glancing about to observe this so called 'fuel pit'. He felt his heart flutter faster, eyes widening in disbelief at the mountainous piles of black rocks. Charcoal. Globs of sediment big and small – all lump as far as he could tell – filled the pit like a small set of rolling hills, refusing to reflect the torchlight in the way charcoal did, for there were twenty or so torches mounted on bracers taller than he and interspersed throughout the pocket. The fuel pit may be far less grand in size when compared to the cavern of bloomeries, but it was still colossal, easily capable of housing the most expansive of households built in Valinor among the gentry. But Maitimo had never seen such a massive amount of charcoal in one location in his life. Forget that. He was astounded that such a mass could even be compiled in the first place! Where did they make it? Nevermind that too. Because where did Moringotto acquire the impossible amount of materials needed to even produce it? He observed the nearest pile more keenly, confirming again by their coarse shape of charred bark that it was lump charcoal. That meant wood. Which meant trees. Maitimo stared. It had to mean trees. That amount of wood could come from nowhere else, but how by all the Valar could there be trees in this place?

One fire was lit in a stone-hewn brazier alongside the mouth of the pocket, providing ample illumination of the steps. There were at least a dozen Elves interspersed along the bases of the gargantuan piles of fuel, all shirtless, the soles of their feet blackened with their hands and forearms nearly the same. It was obvious they had been laboring away for the whole duration Maitimo and the others slept, and maybe even then some. Their ribcages and spines showed far too prominently along what Maitimo could see of their backs beneath loose hair, their skin peppered with streaks of black and a whole assortment of red abrasions while a layer of sweat covered every bit of said skin. The perspiration was so great that it dampened their leggings, fell from their brows in droplets and even coated the backs of their hands as they shoveled heap after heap of charcoal into what had to be transportation devices. Carts on low wheels or sacks made from closely bound staves of wood. Again with the wood.

Maitimo caught one or three Moriquendi chancing glances at him, but they kept on shoveling, or in some cases carrying, Maitimo amended as he watched two Elves take up a sack each onto their shoulders, filled to the brim with charcoal. They hobbled over to the fuel pit's entrance. Their passing caught one Orc's attention and the beast growled out something as he stepped towards them. The nearest Moriquendë screamed something in response, his voice frantic as he threw up an arm and veered away, nearly knocking his partner down in the process. But the other Elf caught the first and ushered him along, grabbing his arm as he stumbled on a step.

The Orc growled after them and Maitimo's eyes were taken by the object that swung wildly from his hand. His eyes widened slightly. Blessed Varda, what cruel instrument did the beast carry? He recognized the nimble rods those Orcs in the smithy carried, but this tool was a handle of some metalwork from which sprouted three flaying strips a cubit long of some kind of coarse, dark material, a material that looked to be tightly braided with two small, bulbous knots stacked on top of each other at the tips. The Orc took notice of Maitimo's stare and stepped forward, some indecipherable speech falling from his mouth, but he recognized the warning look on his face and shifted his feet to move away. Where to he had no idea, just away and preferably in the opposite direction.

Work. He just needed to work with the Moriquendi and imitate whatever it was they did for now so he would not be suspect or be kept an eye on more than any other Elf. Though he suspected that was already the case. He did not exactly blend in.

He moved towards the left of the pit, intending to go to the furthest corner where he could see no Orcs. But his left foot could only tolerate thirty or so paces before he came close to falling to his knees. He changed directions and moved instead towards the nearest pile of charcoal. Towards the Elf that was standing at the base of the mound, shovel in hand as he leaned over to stab the cutting edge into the pile, scraping it down so it tumbled towards the bottom. A cart was beside him, along with two more shovels – spades, the iron flatheads as blackened as the charcoal itself. Maitimo looked around, wondering if these spades were already claimed and said Elves had just yet to return. His concern that they might was fleeting when he saw that one Orc again and he clumsily closed the remaining distance towards the Moriquendë, who either did not notice him or refused to acknowledge him if he did.

Maitimo watched him for a moment, hesitating as he discreetly observed how the Moriquendë's muscles too discernably bunched and flexed along his shoulder blades and arms with each repetitive movement of shoveling, the layer of sweat making strings of his dark hair cling scraggily to the Elf's back and around his neck. His eyes traveling up and down over the length of his body, Maitimo reached out with a tentative hand and hesitated only once more before tapping the Moriquendë on his shoulder. "Elf?" He prayed these Elves would not be offended by such a crass greeting. The Valar knew his own people would be.

The Elf spun, smacking his hand away hard enough to hurt. "Avgarfo!" he whispered through clenched teeth, turning a sharp look on Maitimo. But the Elf froze and it was almost comical how his eyes had to take the brief time to travel upward. They widened, their dark grey flitting back and forth between Maitimo's own before he visibly grew subdued, his shoulders hunching in a way that gave him the appearance of wanting to shrink within himself or return to his stooped stance. He probably would have even retreated back a step had there not been a shoreline of fuel at his heels. The Moriquendë's gaze flicked unobtrusively to his left as though in search of something before it returned to Maitimo, and his countenance both softened and darkened at the same time as his lips pressed into a tight line. "Avgarfo," he repeated far more meekly, turning away. Maitimo listed forward, straining his ears at the low whisper. The Elf stabbed his spade into the charcoal, wrestling the shaft to loosen the compact lumps. He turned his head over his shoulder just enough to mutter at Maitimo under his breath, "Boe i vudam, i dhartham carweg."

Maitimo gave a small shake of his head, briefly clenching his jaw as he reached out and tapped the Elf's shoulder again. "I do not speak Edhellen." Valar, how stupid did he sound saying that? But he enunciated the words slowly, taking the hint and whispering too.

The Elf paused in his shoveling and looked at him, nodding. "Iston." He went back to shoveling.

Maitimo stared at him, nonplussed and not a little irritated. What did that mean? It sounded familiar, but it could be a bidding to go away for all he knew. Nearly every Elf so far had regarded him with surprise, if not shock, and then bafflement whenever he said that he could not speak their language. This Elf had not, but Maitimo did not know what being dismissed as he just was meant either.

He was tempted to leave him be, even now desired to, but he needed some instruction, some guidance, anything if it meant the Orcs' eyes being kept off him. He tapped the Elf again and was again met with something close to a glare. "Quenderin?" Maitimo asked, barely moving his lips. Is that what they even called the ancient speech in Edhellen? Or had the name changed as much as their language had too?

The Elf sighed, his lips pressing together as he again looked to his left, eyes passing back and forth quickly with an expression that was a cross between annoyed and anxious. Maitimo followed his gaze. He saw seven Orcs, the nearest one not twenty paces away, but none were looking in their direction. The Elf then looked at Maitimo the way he had expected him to earlier: in perplexed disbelief. "Man?" he hissed, his brow creasing worriedly.

That meant _what_. Maitimo knew it did; he had used it earlier himself. "Quenderin." He spoke it slower, nearly pleading. "Do you speak Quenderin?"

The Elf stared at him, his face blank. "Quenderin?"

Maitimo nodded, waiting for more but nothing came. He sighed again, that seed of hope shriveling up. Wonderful. He glanced quickly to his right, relieved to see they were still free from the awareness of any of the Orc overseers. Maitimo reached down to take up a spade, hobbling closer to the Elf's side. Working evidently kept the Orcs' eyes elsewhere, or it at least did with this Elf. Though his colorful back told a different story.

Maitimo knelt down, in part to give his left foot a reprieve and also to hide from the view of the Orcs in the cast shadow of the cart, even though the crown of his head still peeked above it. He again grew very cognizant of the thorough absence of the Orc-speaker and again felt the overwhelming crash of relief that he was not present, because Valar, Maitimo truly questioned whether he would have been able to even utter a word to another Elf if that accursed Maia had been here to watch him with his unceasing eye. He could at least breathe a little right now.

Maitimo watched the Elf for a moment, trying to determine just what he was doing because he was not even shoveling any of the fuel into the cart, though it was partially full already. He just stabbed the head of his spade into the upper portions of the pile to make the charcoal tumble downwards and gather at his feet. Presumably to make the shoveling of it into the cart easier, Maitimo added with a nod. He began to do the same, his reach shorter due to how he knelt there on the stone floor, but the lumps still tumbled at his jabs. He caught the Elf glancing at him, but it was too fleeting a look for him to read what might have been in that weary gaze. A moment later the Elf slowly knelt too, or more so collapsed to his knees halfway down, his face half hidden by his loose, filthy hair as he continued to work the granular lumps. The corner of Maitimo's mouth twitched up in a brief smile.

"What is your name?" he whispered. He was again met with a blank look, though now creased with mild incomprehension. Maitimo winced, wondering if it was his pronunciation that was horrid or if he just had the wrong Edhellen altogether. Maitimo twisted his jaw, carefully peering over the rim of the cart, but the Orcs still appeared blissfully ignorant of their one-sided conversation. He leaned in closer to the Elf. "Name?" he repeated, worrying his brow. "Name? You. Name?" The word was _eneth_ , was it not? It was nothing close to their Quenya, but he could hear his father's voice echoing that word repeatedly in his head for 'name' as he practiced the different uses of the syllables on his perfect tongue. Maitimo frowned. Or maybe he said the word for an Elf-maiden. He recalled them being eerily similar in pronunciation.

The Elf continued to stare at him, unresponsive, and Maitimo began to believe he simply had the wrong word, though he could not imagine what he would otherwise be saying. Maitimo shoved the spade into the charcoal, holding the shaft steady with one hand as he tapped at his chest with the other. "I am Maitimo." He tapped his sternum again. "Me, name, Maitimo." He pointed at the Elf. "Name?"

The Elf was silent as he stared, the hint of confusion now replaced with a wary thoughtfulness as his eyes again flitted back and forth between Maitimo's own, though just what he was searching for Maitimo could not even begin to guess. The Elf shifted on his knees, glancing again over the cart towards the Orcs. He met Maitimo's gaze before quickly averting his own, turning away as he gave a small shake of his head. "Únad," he muttered. He jerked his spade out of the charcoal and shoved it back in, his face visibly growing more distressed.

Maitimo frowned at the negative intonation but dismissed it as he tried to catch the Elf's gaze again, eyebrows hiked up in question. "Únad?"

The Elf gave a stiff nod, still refusing to look at him even as he turned to Maitimo more fully. He patted the cart with his palm, leaving behind faint traces of blood on the dark wood. "Mudo lagoren den echadi cûl bant," he mumbled as he gestured several times between the fuel and the cart, hefting his spade in emphasis.

Maitimo understood that gesture well enough, at least, and it was confirmed when this Únad began shoveling the charcoal into the cart, the moves made clumsy because of the angle kneeling put him at. But since he had the longer reach, Maitimo continued to scrape the fuel down the mound for Únad to scoop up, glancing over the top of the cart once more as he did. The Orcs' focus was still rapt on whatever poor Moriquendi garnered their attention. Maitimo had to shut his ears to the noise, but each startled cry still made him jump as he winced involuntarily with every sudden, muted noise that reminded him of the sound that came from beating dust from a rug. Maitimo chanced a subtle glance at Únad, but the Elf appeared unbothered by the clearly distressed calls of his kin – his face may as well have been carved from stone for all that Maitimo could see in it, and the Elf still would not look at him, despite that he turned his way to heave the charcoal over the cart's rim.

Maitimo winced again as he heard a clatter of a dropped spade in the distance and, a desperate flicker of inspiration sparking in the back of his mind, he knocked his knuckles quietly against the cart's hull. Únad jumped, which made Maitimo jump, and he glared at the Elf in mild incredulity. Valar, this Elf was skittish! Maitimo made a face as he tapped the cart again, this time with the pads of his fingers. Únad's eyes followed the gesture and Maitimo nodded. "What in Edhellen?"

Únad frowned at him. "Man?"

Maitimo licked his lips, tapping his chest again with his free hand. "I speak Quenya," he said, enunciating the words even slower since he had to whisper. "Quenya. Me language." He pointed at Únad. "You–" He pointed at himself. "Me–" He gestured back and forth between the two of them. "–in Edhellen is… _Edhel?_ " he ended uncertainly.

Únad raised an eyebrow. "Edhil."

Maitimo stared and then nodded once. "Fine. You me in Edhellen is… _Edhil._ " He paused, glad to see Únad's attention was still focused on him and not his paranoia. "You me in Quenya is _Eldar_. _Edhil_ is _Eldar_." He tapped the cart again, keeping his hand against it. "In Quenya is _norollë_." He tapped the wood again. "What in Edhellen?"

Únad's brow creased into a frown again, traces of confusion surfacing. "Tawar?" he murmured in slight disbelief, as though Maitimo should have known it all along. He gave a quick shake of his head before Maitimo could respond, turning his eyes down as he worked his spade into the charcoal and heaved only half a load into the cart. "Boe i gwael a chirodh múlamudas," he mumbled from the side of his mouth.

Maitimo blinked. "What?" he hissed impatiently.

Únad sighed and gnawed on his lip, appearing to hesitate before craning his neck to peer over the rim of the cart again. Satisfied by whatever he saw, he suddenly dropped his spade at his knees and hunched down, grabbing Maitimo by his shoulder and pulling him in closer. "Quenderin," he muttered under his breath. "Sa Edhellen iaur, i lam iaur an lammathemen?"

Maitimo hesitated. He recognized their word for 'language' in there again but had no notion what correlation it held with his mention of both Quenderin and Edhellen. He nodded anyway, not bothering to hide the confusion from his face.

"Adui, boi i chirodh múlamudas i sennui len aliatha aen adh i bith dhîn, pe cilitha. Istatha aen."

Maitimo gritted his teeth, glaring harder at the Elf as his mouth twisted down in irritation. "I. Do. Not. Speak–"

Únad cut his hand sharply through the air and Maitimo snapped his mouth shut, though the intensity of his glare did not lessen. "Iston!" he whispered harshly. "Dan lasto, Lachend. Lasto annin!" Únad looked at Maitimo intently, holding up a finger in a clear indication to be attentive to what he was about to say. " _Lasto_." He pointed to his lips and then to both of his ears. "Lasto."

Listen. He was telling him to listen. Maitimo nodded, his eyes softening into something more concentrated.

Únad nodded in return, seeming to finally calm down himself, eyes flicking over to his left and then back. He held up his finger again. "Múlamudas."

Maitimo nodded once. "Múlamudas."

Únad gave another slow, intent nod. "Ma." He pointed at Maitimo with both hands. "Den–" He touched the corners of both his eyes, swerving them back and forth as though searching for something. "Cilodh–" He crept his fingers up over the rim of the cart and pointed towards the mouth of the fuel pit. "Múlamudas."

Maitimo's attentive frown deepened into slight bewilderment. He gathered that he was supposed to find something, but he shook his head at the Elf, gesturing questioningly with his hands. "What is _múlamudas_?"

Únad made a certain face that had Maitimo believing that he only just refrained from rolling his eyes. How he looked at him now certainly supported that, if his exasperated glare said anything. "De Edhel," he muttered, almost patronizingly.

Oh. A person. He was supposed to look for a person. Maitimo gave him a tight, humorless smile. "Where?"

Únad slapped a hand over his face, rubbing it a few times before removing said hand, a few streaks of soot left in its wake. "Ú-iston." The words were spoken softly, but Únad again pointed with his finger from his eyes to the mouth of the pit, the digit traveling back and forth between the two several times. "Dan boe i chirodh den," he said emphatically, but Maitimo just decided to ignore any of his garble and just focus on the gestures. They made more sense. "De Edhel nan i dâl faeg."

Maitimo jerked his gaze up from his hands to frown sharply at Únad, those first three words finally something familiar to him. "The Elf with what?" he hissed.

"Dâl faeg," he repeated. Maitimo's attention was drawn once more to the Elf's hand as Únad mimed walking with two of his fingers, letting the first knuckle of one finger cave under itself with each step it walked. He then clenched both his hands into fists, flushing them together inwardly so that the thumbs and forefingers touched. He turned his fists down and away from each other, as though breaking an invisible bundle of sticks. Únad then pointed at Maitimo's left foot and mimed the awkward walking again.

A limp. It was the only thing the Elf could be attempting to say. But it only made Maitimo's frown deepen. He was supposed to find the Elf with a limp? He patted his tender ankle as he stared at Únad. "Dâl faeg?" he repeated uncertainly, though he did so more for the sake of saying something.

Únad nodded, pointing again at Maitimo's bad foot. "De Edhel nan i dâl faeg. _Han_ Edhel," he emphasized, "est Múlamudas." He pointed at Maitimo and did his finger-walking in the direction of the entrance of the pit. "Gwa na den."

Maitimo glanced over the cart to the entrance but turned back to Únad with a frustrated glare. " _Where?_ " Valar, he wanted to shake him!

Únad shrugged, pointing again to the fuel pit's entrance, which Maitimo could only deduce to mean that this Múlamudas was somewhere out there. Únad said nothing more, turning back to the charcoal and taking up his spade to pierce it into the lump and heaving it up with a grunt.

Maitimo watched him work with that frantic speed in silence, a wave of despondency washing over him as he shifted his grip on his own spade. He shoved it into the charcoal, wrestling it under the lumps and heaving it over his shoulder to hear it clatter and tumble in the cart. He shifted on his cramping knees as he repeated the move, glancing up to peer around as discreetly as he was able. He was taken aback when he caught several Elves looking at him from where they worked their own hills of charcoal, all of whom quickly cast their eyes back down when they saw that he noticed. Well, they had certainly mastered the art of peering about without their Orc overseers becoming aware of it. But none of them would hold his gaze. Not one.

Maitimo sighed, turning back to the fuel but glancing up again and again to observe one dark head after another. One marred back after another. One Elf that looked exactly the same as the other after another.

So. He was supposed to find the Elf with the limp. The Elf he assumed with a steel surety that appeared as nondescript and as plain by Moriquendi standards as all the Elves he was observing right now. Unless this Múlamudas had russet hair like himself, he might as well interrogate every Elf all over again as he had done with Únad to learn their names. And how could this Elf be identified by a limp, of all things? He was limping himself! And he had seen at least four Moriquendi hobble along in the fuel pit alone, so just how many more were hindered by ruined feet outside in the bloomeries? If he could even manage to make his way out of this pit. Valar, why did he even have to locate this Elf? Maitimo was seriously but one frustrated thought away from banishing the unlikely idea of finding him altogether.

But he could not erase the memory of the distress in Únad's face as the Moriquendë fought through his paranoia of the Orcs' awareness to try and communicate all of this, an endeavor that had taken twice as long due to how slowly he spoke for Maitimo's sake. It was evidently important enough for him in the eyes of Únad.

Maitimo sighed again, closing his eyes in resignation. Curse it all. He shoved his spade into the lump a bit more viciously. Well, this task of locating an Elf should not be difficult at all!


	20. Moriquendi Are Strange

.

 **Chapter 20:  
Moriquendi Are Strange**

 _Whack!_

A brief cry ripped from Maitimo's throat, one he quickly bit off with a fierce clenching of his teeth. Not that it helped. His shoulder blade still seared with fire. He did not feel any skin split beneath the lash, but he knew a welt would form before long, could feel it forming already. He slowly opened his eyes, glowering where he kneeled on the rock floor and nearly shaking, though not with pain. Hot fury raced through him and it took all of his willpower not to turn around and lunge for the Orc daring enough to strike him with his rod. For the third time. Maitimo went back to his work, his hands visibly trembling from the anger that made all of his movements stiff and clumsy. Valar, he hated Orcs. _Hated_ them. He was working as fast as he was able to. Could these swiving beasts not see that? By Aulë, if they struck him one more time he would –

 _Whack!_

A curse exploded from his mouth, several Moriquendi heads whipping over to him in surprise. Maitimo dropped the tongs as he spun around and rose on his right leg in one smooth motion. Within the space of a breath he lunged for the Orc, moving so quickly that a glimmer of surprise actually made its way into the Orc's sallow eyes. And the Orc shuffled back several steps, animalistic anger contorting his savage face as he roared like the mud-dwelling beast he was. But before Maitimo could even extend his arms to wrap his hands around that wretched fiend's throat, several Moriquendi were hauling him back, shouting frantic Edhellen at him while pulling and tugging at his arms and waist until he stumbled forward to his knees, his bad foot sending him off kilter. He ripped his arms out of their grips, trying to rise and rush forward as he watched the Orc roar at him, now joined by several more as they appeared from in between the bloomeries. But they did not approach any closer, no matter how much they snarled and twisted their rods in their fists.

Ah, so they would only leave him be after inciting him into a fury? Maitimo's expression darkened as he fought harder against the grappling Moriquendi to again rise to his feet.

"Baw, Lachend!"

"Avgaro!"

"Daro!"

"Leave off!" Maitimo snarled at them, sending a scathing glare over his shoulder. He half expected them to meet him with that blank stare that always seemed to result after any Quenya, but his tone of voice was apparently enough since they released him, even as they continued to regard him with a mix of exasperation and worry.

He was just pushing himself up from the ground when there was a noticeable shift in the heated air and a foreboding hush fell over the Elves and even the Orcs. Maitimo looked up and froze where he awkwardly stood as the Orc-speaker appeared from nowhere, just suddenly emerging from in between two bloomeries as if he had been a calling's distance away the whole time. Maitimo glared at him in growing incredulity, a new brand of fury blossoming all over again. For what, was he a swiving apparition now?

Elves again went out of their way to veer out of his path, but the Orc-speaker's eyes were trained on Maitimo as he moved with his unworldly speed towards him. Maitimo braced himself, a slight apprehension rising, but moving so quickly that he became a blur, the Orc-speaker's hand shot out and snatched the rod from the very Orc that had been taking liberty with Maitimo, closing up the last few steps that lay between them. The Orc-speaker twirled it once in his hand before whipping it out and striking it with merciless strength across Maitimo's face, so nippily that Maitimo could not even begin to try and evade it. The strike was so loud that it echoed even above the working furnaces.

He felt his skin slice open over the cheekbone, felt the hot blood instantly well to dribble down as he stumbled back from the force of the hit, falling over completely as he crashed into the Moriquendi that were still behind him. He cupped his cheek as the whole left side of his face throbbed, the vision of his left eye blurring.

The Orc-speaker tossed the rod back to the Orc without looking behind him, his face that had always been so unreadable finally darkening into an expression of irritation, and maybe even anger. He scowled down at Maitimo, lip curling in derision. "I grow tired of your pettiness," he said in a dangerously low voice. "Naivety is excused only once, little king! Act on your miffed pride again and it will be before my Master I drag you!" He turned his thunderous gaze on the many Elves who had frozen at the spectacle. He barked out something in Edhellen that sent the Moriquendi scrambling away from Maitimo and back to their own work. The Orc-speaker's eyes followed them before they snapped over to the group of Orcs and he, again, guttered out something this time in their own happy little speech. The Orcs made no response and the Orc-speaker did not wait for one as he turned and departed back between the two bloomeries as quickly as he had arrived, shoving one Elf aside who could not move away fast enough, said Elf yelping in agony as his bare foot crashed against his cooling ingot.

Maitimo looked away from the Moriquendë, grunting as he righted himself. His head was spinning as he shifted on his knees to return to the bloomery he was working at. Not crawl – shift. He was not crawling. He wiped the back of his hand against the few hot streaks of blood he could feel steadily dribbling down his cheek, wincing at the sting and how the rod had aggravated the wound on the opposite side of his head, which now flared and pulsed again unrelentingly. Maitimo cursed under his breath.

Valar, that Orc-speaker was strong.

The racing of his heart finally slowing, he made an effort to focus his attention on what he had been doing, resolutely ignoring the Orcs he could feel moseying around behind him.

He had been moved to the bloomeries. Why, he had no idea, only that the Orc-speaker had come barging into the fuel pit and grabbing his neck again without so much as a 'do you mind?' to yank him away from Únad's side after not even an hour of working. Únad had only knelt there and watched him go, that anxious paranoia once more lighting up his eyes. But the Orc-speaker had forcefully hauled Maitimo back into the cavern, still not saying a word, and now here he was five hours later. Like in the fuel pit, he deduced that working kept Orc attention away from him for the most part. So as he had with Únad, he copied whatever he saw these Moriquendi doing, rushing to a bloomery as fast as his limp would allow him. The Moriquendi at the bloomery he had collapsed against had gawked at him, but Maitimo glared them into submission, his irate gaze burning into them until they looked away. Valar, what was it with these Moriquendi?

Despite their behavior, there were at least three Elves at each live bloomery and neither of the Elves at this furnace spoke to him – but he conceded that the fact they did not was most probably his fault. Glaring at new companions was not the most polite thing to do. But with so many Orcs teeming in and around the bloomeries, any desire he felt to try striking up a conversation with them like with Únad, pitiful as it would have been, wilted away rather fast. The Moriquendi did stare at him, though. Always staring, whenever they could sneak their eyes away from their task.

"Lachend?"

It was coarsely whispered, but Maitimo closed his eyes with a soft sigh, twisting his jaw and slightly shaking his head at the name, whatever it meant. Who in all of Arda started that, anyway? He looked up at the Moriquendë at the billow, his left eye now blurring with the reflexive tears that had gathered and he blinked several times as he tried to focus on the Elf's fatigued face. This Elf was one of the few Elves actually wearing a shirt, though it was saturated with sweat and stained with filth. The only feature that distinctively identified him from the rest of the ever dark-haired Moriquendi was the gruesome scar across the side of his throat. It looked painful, but Maitimo was glad to at last be capable of recognizing one Elf without trouble, aside from Únad.

The Elf looked down at him uncertainly, nervously twisting his hands on the broad handle before pointing at the hearth of the smelter. He did not speak any Edhellen – finally, a Moriquendë who seemed to know better! – but Maitimo understood the gesture well enough and shifted forward to the bloom bed, hefting up the pair of iron tongs he had thrown off to the side to tackle the Orc. The deep thrum of the furnace's inner fire was a constant drone in his ears, magnified by the heavy whoosh of air through the tuyere as scar-Elf worked the billow. Maitimo pressed his lips tightly together and took a deep breath, trying to prepare himself. He could already feel the scalding heat flaring out from the taphole and he winced in dreaded anticipation. Valar, this was insane. No gloves, no leathers, no protection of any kind to drag out newly smelted iron ore, but Maitimo knew now that the longer he hesitated, the greater the chance was that an Orc would notice. The first lash on his back showed for it.

Maitimo held his breath as he opened the clawed tongs and shoved them deep into the opening at the base of the furnace, his bare hands disappearing inside as he searched for the crucible at the center, pushing the tongs along the hearth's floor until he hit the lump of ore. He worked the tongs until he felt them take on a solid grip, clenching his teeth in pain as the top of his hand hit the roof of the taphole. He dragged out the porous mass as quickly as he could, the slag-covered ingot pulsing with brilliant reds and oranges as he released it to lie there on the bed. It rocked back and forth a little bit, but then it stabilized as its liquefying heat slowly made the mass droop into a mound against the bed.

Maitimo sighed in relief as he dropped the tongs. It had gone far better than the first bloom he extracted, on which he had burned himself four times in his haste to pull it through the taphole and from which had resulted the next lash on his back for apparently not working fast enough. Valar, he would enjoy seeing an Orc attempt to do it as quickly as he just did. Ai, his father would have his head if he saw him working a smelter so recklessly!

A tight, bitter smile ghosted across Maitimo's dried lips at the thought, but he forcefully banished it from his mind at the ache that tore through his chest. He took up the slag shovel leaning against the bloomery and again shoved the tool into the taphole, scooping out any sediment that remained in the crucible. Once finished, he straightened with a grimace, his back aching, and he leaned towards his left to peer around the smelter's rotund clay wall. "Eh!" he called. The Elf on the other side, the third Elf of their little group, came around to look in question at him. Maitimo nodded wearily to him, gesturing up towards the throat of the bloomery where black smoke was currently belching from. "Go ahead," he said, though he knew the Elf knew what he meant despite the Quenya. Maitimo briefly bowed his head, trying to gulp in air in the erratic gasps his cracked rib would allow him while he listened to the Elf shovel more charcoal and iron ore into the stack. And like all of them did, the Elf moved fast.

He could feel scar-Elf's lingering stare on the back of his head again, but when he twisted around to catch him the Elf looked away, eyes trained on where the nozzle of the billow was shoved into the tuyere. Maitimo narrowed his eyes at him before slowly turning to again regard the glowing mass of iron at his knees.

Maitimo knew he had to retract his earlier assertion just yesterday that these Elves were being idiotic with how recklessly they worked in their haste. He now realized that they had no choice, the several burns on his hands and forearms testifying to that. Sweat was dripping into his eyes and blurring his vision while every part of his body that had not already been hurting before ached with a strenuous burn. He knew he was nowhere near the level of exhaustion each and every Moriquendë looked to be, yet it was proving difficult to maintain the consistent pace these Elves managed to execute their tasks with, doubly so because he himself was forced to move far slower than his wont, all thanks to his foot. Maitimo spared a quick glance to glare down at said foot, that frantic aggravation briefly tearing through him as his gaze roamed the ghastly colors that still bruised it. But he ripped his eyes away and pushed himself to his feet, grimacing as sore muscles screamed at him and then gasping when his left foot took his weight.

Maitimo wiped away the perspiration that dribbled into the hollow of his throat with an impatient swipe of his hand, annoyed even more by its tickle. He rounded the bloomery to the billow, bracing himself against the heated rock. Valar, he wanted to return to the fuel pit. At least in there it was cooler.

He reached the billow, exchanging a silent glance with scar-Elf as he also took hold of the handle and pushed down, arms and shoulders burning up again. And then heaving it back up to force air to be sucked in through the valve. He had seen billows worked before, had worked plenty of smaller ones himself when shadowing his father in his forge, but these gigantic monstrosities were nearly impossible. Maitimo snorted. A massive billow for a massive smelter. How fitting. He could not help but look out of the corner of his eye at scar-Elf, to look at how the Moriquendë was practically stooped over the handle, how the tendons of his brittle wrists strained against his skin, skin that bore the ghastly indentations that only resulted from some kind of bindings. Rope, or something else. Maitimo's eyes traveled up the Elf's emaciated frame and he nearly startled when he found the Elf staring directly at him with a gaze both questioning and wary. And of that poorly suppressed wonder. Discomfort wriggling like a worm inside, Maitimo looked away, working the billow again. He frowned.

Work. He just had to keep working and he would not attract the Orcs' attention, even though all he wanted to do now was collapse against the smelter's wall and catch his breath. If he could just finish one day to sit down and think. To just think.

"Lachend?"

Maitimo sighed again. "Maitimo," he gritted out emphatically as he rolled his eyes over to the third Elf. As soon as he looked away from the billow, he could feel scar-Elf's gaze burning into the side of his head again. Maitimo clenched his teeth, mildly working his jaw. Seriously, what was with these Moriquendi? But the third Elf only gestured towards the ingot with the mallet he was loosely holding.

Maitimo's gaze traveled down to the iron lump. Well, it had evidently cooled enough to beat the slag from it, if its dimmed pulsing of color said anything. Tensing up in preparation for the pain in his left foot, he shuffled back over to the bloom bed, crashing to his knees as he again took up the tongs and clamped them around the bloom. This part was safer at least. Sort of. So long as a piece of the bloom did not break off and fly to land on his bare skin like it had with the last ingot, he would be fine.

Maitimo turned his face away as the third Elf hunkered down and began slamming his mallet against the iron, hammering away at the slag that crusted the ore. The impact jarred up the tongs and into his arms while he involuntarily winced with each bang of the hammer. The Elf struck with a precision that bespoke of having performed this task countless times before and soon enough, the ingot was clean of slag – as much as hammering could remove, anyway – and Maitimo immediately lifted the cooked lump over to the blanket of skin near the bed, the third Elf veering out of the iron's way. Maitimo dropped the ingot onto the skin, disposed of the tongs and bunched up the corners of the sheet. He pushed himself to his feet, heaving up the deposit of iron and cautiously holding it away from his side as he hurried over to the nearest bloom rack of the smithy, staying as clear of the Orcs as he could while weaving through the smelters, several Moriquendi staring at him when he neared and then stepping out of his way.

Maitimo glanced down at the skin-sack and mildly shook his head in dark wonder as he observed the puffs of hot steam wafting up through the openings near his hand. He was well beyond baffled by the _skin_ – if it was skin – that Moringotto apparently employed for everything that required the raw leather. The sheets of skin had to have been treated, though he could not even begin to imagine what treatment they could receive or what beast they had been flayed from as to withstand the burning heat of freshly smelted ore. The nugget he was carrying now should have burned a hole straight through the sack and set the rest of the skin on fire. But aside from the occasional scorch mark, the skin was never damaged, no matter how many ingots he wrapped in its folds. Again, if it was skin, for Maitimo found himself questioning even that, except he had no clue what else it could be. His mind was unerringly taken back to the memory of his first meeting with the Orc-speaker, of the banner with him that had comprised of some ghastly material stretched taut between the two tongs. He now could not help but wonder if it and this skin were two in the same. If they were all the same.

Maitimo scoffed in disgust. It was not like it mattered.

He had discovered earlier that there were several nondescript openings in the cavern, aside from the entrance and two pockets, just as nondescript as the crevice had been in the Tunnel. But next to three passageways were assortments of what he definitely knew to be transportation devices that clearly necessitated the use of two people. Again with the wood, two long shafts were bound together by a drooping expanse of that unnatural skin, on which lay a mass of iron ore freshly smelted from the many bloomeries. Maitimo released a corner of his sack to let his own ingot fall on top of the pile. It tumbled off and down the side, smoking away, but Maitimo turned to walk back to his bloomery before he could see whether it rolled off the skin or not. Eventually two Elves would come and take up the carrier on their shoulders and disappear into one of those tunnels to the Valar knew where. He had seen dozens of Elves come and go these past few hours to do just that, which left Maitimo feeling more confounded than ever before. There were clearly more Moriquendi present than the fifty or sixty he had presumed yesterday. Were there ninety, then? A hundred?

Maitimo bent down to snatch up the slag shovel, rounding the bloomery to join the third Elf in his shoveling, all the while avoiding that annoyingly rapt scrutiny of scar-Elf altogether. He met the third Elf's questioning gaze only briefly before stooping to scoop up some charcoal without a word. He knew the ratios needed to smelt it correctly, memories of watching his father's flawless expertise around the complexity of his own smelter springing to mind as Maitimo worked his own shovel. So he did not need to guess as he assumed the Moriquendi did at the amounts needed of ore and fuel or, Valar forbid, attempt to actually ask the Elves in Edhellen. Thanks to that knowledge, he moved twice as fast and confidently as the third Elf, or he would have if he were not shoveling so clumsily. He was dominantly right-handed but had to reverse his grip on the shovel so that the majority of his weight did not rest on his left foot with each heave, resulting in a very awkward hold. He worried at first at how slow it made him, but so long as he kept working the Orcs seemed to not care. The Orc-speaker was a different story, but he was presently not in the smithy, thank Aulë.

Maitimo turned his head to peer at the third Elf, eyes traveling from his dark head down to his bare and blackened feet to observe how he stood. He twisted his jaw in consideration. No, this Moriquendë did not appear to have a limp, though it was difficult to tell unless he was walking.

"Man te, Lachend?"

Maitimo's eyes snapped up at the frantic whisper. The third Elf was openly frowning at him in both worry and suspicion. He glanced down at his feet where Maitimo had been looking, looking back up in bafflement, his frown deeper.

Maitimo hesitated, wetting his lips with what little moisture was still in his mouth. "Múlamudas?" he asked tentatively.

The Elf jolted back slightly, surprise making its way to his face, though he only looked more baffled. He slowly shook his head. "Ú." The syllable was long and drawn out, but Maitimo had no trouble understanding its negative inflection since it was the exact same in Quenya.

Maitimo sighed, giving the third Elf a tight smile before turning his eyes back down to his shovel. It was worth the attempt. An attempt now numbering twelve.

Because this Múlamudas was turning out to be so incredibly easy to find!

Maitimo looked up as he sensed the nearing presence of another Elf and, using the shovel as a crutch, he moved out of the way when he saw a Moriquendë from the fuel pit – not Únad – approach with one of those sacks made from wood staves on his back, filled to the brim with charcoal. Maitimo nodded in concession to him, standing back to watch as the Elf wearily unloaded it, nearly dropping the weight from his shoulders. Maitimo removed himself into the darker shadows of the bloomery, though it was practically impossible to evade all of the Orcs' lines of sight. But he needed a moment to think, to try to piece together all this mystification in his brain.

Because truthfully, Maitimo was flummoxed, primarily because there was still one point of interest he could not wrap his mind around for the life of him:

What was Moringotto doing? What was he, Maitimo, doing here in this oppressive smithy, being made to take on the labor tasked to all these Moriquendi? It made no sense. If he was just another thrall to Moringotto, why had the Vala killed the rest of his delegation? If Moringotto had just wanted another thrall for his collection, why had he not also taken all sixty of those Elves captive with Maitimo and thereby multiply his slaves and their production by a massive amount? He certainly would have been able to achieve it with the force he sent with the Orc-speaker, especially with those four Valaraukar present. So why had he preordained the rest of those Noldor to die and Maitimo captured if his intention this whole time was for Maitimo to only labor away as all of these poor Moriquendi were being forced to do? There had to be something more that Maitimo simply could not see. There just had to be. But Maitimo could not discern what it might be no matter how desperately he worked his brain. Moringotto was just not making any sense!

Besides, it did not help that the quandary pierced down to the bedrock of his principal question of why Moringotto wanted him at all. Why had he bothered to kill those three score Noldor – Aráto and Sornion and all those faithful Elves who were masters of their own trade come doffing their armor – and not Maitimo? Why did Moringotto want him? Just so that he could now declare that he had a Noldorin prince as a thrall? Why did Moringotto go through all of that trouble and scheming to capture Maitimo if _this_ was all Moringotto wanted him for?

Maitimo glanced over at the third Elf again as the Elf from the fuel pit moved away. He bit his lip, waiting until the Elf met his eyes again with that same questioning stare. His voice was still hoarse, but he spoke up only enough to be heard over the furnace's fire. "Quenderin?" He could not keep the hopeful lilt from his voice.

The third Elf frowned again, glancing cautiously over his shoulder. "Quenderin?" he repeated in a whisper, clearly puzzled. "Man sa?"

Maitimo sighed, looking away. "Nevermind." He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture to communicate the muttered Quenya and the third Elf appeared to understand since he returned to his repetitive shoveling, though not before casting one more suspicious glance at Maitimo.

Maitimo watched him for a split moment before forcing himself upright with a grunt, pitting his shovel against the charcoal-dusted floor to alleviate the weight on his left foot. He glanced over at scar-Elf, unsurprised that he was already staring at him while pumping the billow. Maitimo slightly cocked an eyebrow at him. "Quen–"

Scar-Elf was already quickly shaking his head and Maitimo turned away from him stiffly, biting his tongue. He would not snap out. It was not these Moriquendi's fault they did not know Quenderin, but Valar, could not at least one of them speak it?

He ran a weary hand through his hair at the bitter thought, grimacing and pulling it away in repugnance at the grimy feeling of sweat-soaked strands. Reluctance warred within, but that bubbling despondency pushed him to cast one more fleeting look at scar-Elf who, of course, was still staring at him. Maitimo pursed his lips. "Múla–"

The Elf shook his head.

Maitimo turned away sharply, his movements more stiff and jerky as he willed himself to just forget it, forget all of it. He jabbed the shovel into the pile of charcoal with more force than necessary. Valar, just why in all of Arda did he have to find this Elf? Could Únad not have attempted to communicate that much, particularly since he had been doing a fairly good job of it? Maitimo wondered why he even bothered. It was awkward trying to approach these Elves that gawked at him, difficult trying to ask them, embarrassing when they then stared at him as though he had been born under a rock, and did nothing but heighten the risk of the Orcs' rods on his back. Maitimo still did not know if they were allowed to speak or if the Moriquendi forewent talking simply because they were too exhausted, but he did not want to have to garner an Orc's attention to find out. Though they were obviously not permitted to attack the Orcs, he added sardonically.

Maitimo nearly jumped out of his skin when an obnoxiously loud horn blast erupted throughout the cavern.

He looked up in alarm, peering into the smoke-clogged chimney that funneled up from the smithy. His eyebrows drew together. The horn had sounded like it came from up there, echoing on down into the cavern of bloomeries. He remembered the two consecutive horn blasts yesterday and waited for the second one, but it never came. But the Moriquendi immediately responded to it nonetheless.

Before the Orc-horn ended its blaring note, every Moriquendë in his sight was either straightening from their hunched positions, rising from where they knelt by bloom beds, or stopping wherever they were walking. Simultaneously, tongs and shovels and hammers and any other tool were unceremoniously dropped to the floor, their clangs echoing over each other as Elves trudged away from the bloomeries, some Elves pairing up to lean on each other. Maitimo frowned, wondering for a brief and even hopeful moment that the Moriquendi would start filing towards the mouth of the smithy as they had done yesterday, but…no. That momentary flare of promise fluttered and died in his chest, but his frown deepened even further as he watched them unwaveringly spread out towards the walls of the cavern to sit down in the deeper shadows, many of them congregating along a portion of the left wall. Even scar-Elf and the third Elf of their exclusive group were heading that way without a glance back.

It was a resting period, Maitimo suddenly realized. One horn meant a break while two had to mean an end to the day's labor. Realizing that they were actually allowed to rest almost made Maitimo collapse where he crookedly stood. He was quick to do as he saw the Moriquendi doing and shuffled over to the right wall – the shortest distance to walk – and huddled down in the heavy shadows cast by their sloping walls. He did not know how long this break would last, though probably a pitiful amount of time if he had to assume, but he would take what he could if it just meant catching his breath. His stomach seared with pain as he lowered himself and leaned against the rock. He absently crossed his arms over it, trying not to think about it. His stomach had stopped growling for nourishment a long time ago and only now wracked him with an endless, deep-set pain.

Maitimo closed his eyes as he leaned his head against the stone, mouth falling slightly open as he inhaled gulps of air, ignoring the mucky feel of sweat cooling on his skin and the lances of pain that shot through his chest with every breath. He stretched his left leg out in front of him, nearly wanting to cry in relief at the reprieve. Valar, he did not even want to see what his foot might look like now.

But now he finally had a moment to piece together his thoughts and make sense of this mess. Just –

He sensed a presence and his eyes opened, ears twitching as they made out the soft patter of footsteps before his eyes even registered that it was an Elf approaching him, not an Orc. Maitimo froze as the Moriquendë came closer, his steps confident enough that it was obvious his destination was Maitimo himself and Maitimo watched him warily, wondering what he could want. But as his eyes traveled cursorily up and down the Elf's lissome body, he noticed all of the sudden the faulty footing the Elf was walking with and he softly gasped. He was limping!

Maitimo's eyes snapped back up to the Moriquendë's own and he listed forward, catching the Elf's gaze. "Múlamudas?"

The Elf slowed to a stop as he frowned at Maitimo. "Amman len anglennad nin isto?" he quietly grunted as he lowered himself with a pained grimace to sit cross-legged next to him. He looked down at his hands, fiddling with something. "Ú-iston mas de."

Maitimo gave a tight smile. "Thought so," he muttered as he leaned back against the wall again. He may not understand a word being said, but he was fairly positive that the actual Múlamudas would not look at him in downright confusion in response to his name. Maitimo lifted an eyebrow, studying the Elf. "Quenderin?" Why not?

The Elf glanced up, his frown deeper. "Man?"

"Nevermind."

Maitimo looked away and caught the Elf doing the same after several moments of silence. But the Elf caught his attention again as he moved one of his hands up to his mouth and Maitimo's eyes widened as he watched the Moriquendë slide something in between his teeth. Food! He realized he was close to gaping and snapped his jaw shut, listing forward once more. "Where?" he barked, pointing at what looked like meat of some kind.

The Elf stared at him in alarm, stopping mid-chew. He looked down at the handful of food and then twisted around to point towards the opposite side of the cavern. Maitimo's gaze flicked over there, but sitting down as he was there was no way to see through the bloomeries. But he presumed the Elf was pointing to those many Moriquendi he had seen congregate along that wall just moments earlier. Elves were again filtering through the smelters, but Maitimo did not even care what they might be doing now that he knew there was food to be had. He shifted to spring to his foot but froze when the strange Elf grabbed him with a surprisingly firm grip on his arm. Maitimo glared at him, but the Elf just shook his head, his mouth still full with chewing. Maitimo opened his mouth to argue, but he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to see another Elf coming out from the bloomeries. It was scar-Elf, and he watched the silent Moriquendë come and squat down to practically collapse against the ground next to him just as the stranger had done. Scar-Elf had both his hands full and, without speaking, he reached over and dropped the serving of food into Maitimo's lap. Maitimo stared at it, confirming that it was indeed meat, before turning his eyes back over to scar-Elf who was now munching down on his own.

Scar-Elf met his gaze, eyebrows hiking up in question, but he again did not speak, instead ripping the tough meat apart from his fingers with a jerk of his teeth.

Maitimo swallowed. "Thank you," he murmured, looking back down at his lap. The meat was definitely charred, definitely overcooked, and definitely of a species that Maitimo could not identify. But the question of the meat's origin hardly slowed him down from taking up the slab of meat and biting into it, wrestling with the stubborn fibers. Valar, it was like trying to chew through leather. It was an unpleasant taste, even rancid, but his mouth watered as the unknown flavor exploded on his tongue. A more morbid part of him had the thought that the meat maybe came from the same creature as those skins did. It hurt swallowing, but he forced it down, grimacing as it scraped against sensitive tissue.

Maitimo was distracted as he again sensed the presence of another Elf and he again looked up. Two Elves were now coming, third-Elf one of them, but Maitimo did not recognize the other one. He stared, casting a significant, questioning look towards third-Elf, but the Moriquendë only looked at him fleetingly. Maitimo's eyes quickly whipped over to where another Elf was coming in from the left. And then another one. And another one. Maitimo gawked openly, his eyebrows drawing together. What in all of Arda….

The five Elves joined the other two in huddling down on the ground close to him – far too close to him, he thought, discomfort worming inside at their proximity. But they either did not notice his awkwardness or did not care as they crossed their legs beneath them. Without a word even to each other and nary a glance towards Maitimo, they all focused on quickly scarfing down their portions of meat.

Maitimo stared, eyes swiveling from one face to another.

This was creepy.

"Ah–" Several Elves glanced up at him at the brief noise and he closed his mouth shut. They look back down at their food. Maitimo stared, eyes moving across all of them again as his frowned further. Was this a Moriquendi thing or an enslaved-Moriquendi thing? Maitimo could not recall the Mithrim ever behaving in any similar fashion to this at all, brief as the time was the Noldor had interacted with them, or more like stared at each other in both fascination and suspicion while Fëanáro and Lord Neldoron had tried to communicate since the Lord of the Mithrim had been the only one in that rather large company to speak broken Quenderin. But never had those Mithrim suggested having such odd behavior as these Moriquendi did.

Come to think of it, why did Lord Neldoron never even tell them about these enslaved kin of his? His father had gone to pains to learn whatever could be gleaned of Moringotto from these Moriquendi, but Lord Neldoron had not so much as uttered a word of this horror. Valar, did he even know? Because if none of these Moriquendi were of the Mithrim, just where in Endórë had these Elves come from, and how? Something bad, unspeakably bad must have happened, but the Mithrim might as well have been living in blissful ignorance for how much they revealed.

Even as these conundrums raced through Maitimo's mind, he espied another Elf approaching, seeming to slink unseen between the smelters as quickly as he could move….And he was limping.

Maitimo held his breath as the Elf crouched down to huddle between two of the Elves, who both scooted over to make room. Maitimo stared, his eyes trained unwaveringly on this new stranger, now numbering eight – well, six, discounting third-Elf and scar-Elf. He briefly glanced around the smithy, wondering if any more planned to head over to his spot along the wall and also wondering if he would see Únad at all. Or even the Elf who gave him his shirt, whom Maitimo found that he kind of wanted to see again. But he saw neither. Several Orcs were still present, moving between the bloomeries with their ever-present rods in hand, but all the Moriquendi had removed themselves to the cast shadows of the circular wall.

The Orc-speaker was still absent and part of Maitimo started to grow suspicious of whether he should be suspicious of that or not.

But he dismissed that and centered his full attention on the eighth Elf and it was not long before the Moriquendë appeared to sense it, for he stopped eating to apprehensively turn his glazed eyes up to meet Maitimo's. He was as nondescript as much as his companions; shirtless and barefoot, dangerously malnourished, hair matted against the sweat, and skin embedded with filth, the soles of his feet blackened while what Maitimo could see of the insides of his smudged hands were speckled with blood.

He pushed that realization away for later, focusing again on the Elf's face, which had visibly grown more anxious the longer Maitimo stared at him. "Múlamudas?" he asked warily, trying to keep the hope at bay. Several of the other Elves were looking between them, but Maitimo snuffed down the rush of embarrassment and refused to look at them, especially scar-Elf and third-Elf, who must both know what he was on about.

But that by now very familiar frown was contorting the Moriquendë's already worn visage. "Man o den?" he muttered in a surprisingly deep voice, eyes flitting from Maitimo to several of his companions. He slipped another large scrap of meat past his lips, chewing quickly. "De ú si, had min gryth."

"Psst," the Elf sitting next to third-Elf interjected. He leaned towards the deep-voice Elf. "Lachend ú-pêd Edhellen," he rattled off in just above a whisper.

Tossing a glance at Maitimo, the Elf's eyes slightly widened. "Man?" he hissed back.

The other Elf nodded. "Thandren. Pêd _Queeeenya_."

Maitimo smothered a snort, feeling somewhat proud that he understood the gist of their murmurs, or at least what the one Elf was trying to explain about his lack of speaking ability. He had no clue what the first Elf had answered to Múlamudas' name with, but….Maitimo turned his eyes over to third-Elf, who had been discreetly peering at him for a while. An eyebrow slightly lifting, he flicked his eyes meaningfully over to the Elf he just questioned and looked back at third-Elf, his stare insistent. But third-Elf shook his head in response, his clear eyes conveying that he understood the question of whether or not this was Múlamudas. Maitimo sighed, tossing another piece of meat in his mouth as he thought.

 _Pêd_. Hm. He added that to the roster of words he knew he had to start remembering. He was aware that he was using the wrong form of their 'speak' verb every time, but at least these Elves appeared to have no trouble dissecting what he was trying to say. Because that was one of the more astounding differences with this Edhellen. In Quenya, the general conjugation of a verb was the same for each subject, only changing with each different tense. But his father had managed to piece together rather quickly from the Mithrim that these Moriquendi had a different word for every single conjugation of the verb, every single tense and with every single subject. How by the Valar did a language that sounded so flat to his ears wind up evolving into such a ridiculously complicated mess? _Pêd_ , then. One more conjugation of 'speak'. Several dozen more to go.

Wait a moment. Maitimo's eyes snapped over to stare hard at the stranger. How did he know about the Quenya? He had never seen this Elf before, had never seen any of these Elves except for the two he was working with and had only ever mentioned Quenya to the shirt-Elf. And Únad. But neither were anywhere in sight.

The deep-voice Elf only wound up looking more confused as he stared at the other Elf. "Quenya?" he enunciated slowly.

The other Elf nodded. "De lammed," he whispered. And then he shrugged. "Egor ha man pent an bragol."

Maitimo glared at both of them. "Eh!"

"Shh!" All eight of them were quick to hush him, even scar-Elf, and stared at him in a mix of consternation and heightened anxiety. Several looked over their shoulders, scooting in closer to the wall.

Maitimo slowly nodded, letting them know he understood to be quiet. With the smallest of glances towards third-Elf and scar-Elf, Maitimo looked at the rest of them. "Quenderin?" Oh come now, please.

Frowns abounded, many of them looking at each other before returning to stare at Maitimo. "Quenderin?" many of them repeated and Maitimo dropped his head. _Quenderin_ was muttered several more times, as though trying it out on their tongues, along with whatever other Edhellen they spewed out with it. Except for scar-Elf who appeared to revel in silence. Maitimo was just about to seriously abandon the venture and return silently to his food when it suddenly occurred to him that these Elves would not know that word at all. Could not know. Valar, _Quenderin_ was an erudite word! He wagered that not even half the Amaneldi themselves used it, still resorting to the original word it evolved from. _Quendian_ was what he should be using with these people!

Maitimo looked back up. "Psst." Eight pairs of eyes swiveled to him and he held his breath. "Quendian?"

The reaction was immediate. Confusion cleared from their faces, replaced by obvious recognition. The relief that swept through Maitimo was so powerful that he grew dizzy. They shot Edhellen his way, but Maitimo did not even bother with it. His expression softened into something more congenial as his eyebrows rose in question at them all. "You speak Quendian?"

They shook their heads and Maitimo deflated as most of them devolved into mutters again. But the name Múlamudas was mentioned at least once by every voice and Maitimo perked up, growing stiff with tension as he tried to pick out their overlapping Edhellen. "What Múlamudas?" He was met with several silent stares, but Maitimo held up his free hand and gestured to pay attention. " _Lasto_ ," he said, suddenly inspired. The Elves looked at him in open surprise, especially third-Elf, and Maitimo nodded, his heart starting to race. Well then, it really did mean 'listen'! " _Listen_. Múlamudas what?"

"Penninodh Quendian, hîr nîn," whispered the deep-voice Elf. He gave a small shrug of his shoulders. "Mae, Múlamudas pêd den."

"Wait." He all but glared at the Elf as the garble of Únad's own side of their conversation alongside that cart came rushing back, the few words he had comprehended finally piecing together. "Múlamudas speak Quendian?"

There were several nods, accompanied by more of their rapid Edhellen, but Maitimo could hear none of it as this near revelation ricocheted through his mind, thought after thought spinning around his head as quickly as the Edhellen was going through one ear and out the other. But the resentment against Únad that had been gradually building over the last many hours swiftly dissipated until almost nonexistent. By Aulë, to know that this was what Únad had been trying to say, and to do it with that paranoia he had been taut with….Maitimo tossed a cursory glance around the darkened smithy, towards the mouth of the fuel pit, but he was still nowhere in sight. Almost at the same time Maitimo belatedly registered the unhesitant manner these Elves spoke of this Múlamudas with, that except for silent scar-Elf there was not one Moriquendë who had not murmured his name. They all knew who he was, he realized with growing anticipation. Valar, he had to find this Elf! Maitimo listed forward, the speed of his jerky movement startling the two Elves on either side of him.

"Where?" He almost shouted the demand, but even he could hear the raw urgency in his hushed voice. Part of him cringed at how pathetic he sounded, but he looked between the staring Elves insistently. "Where Múlamudas?"

The deep-voice Elf seemed mildly exasperated, but he and four others pointed in unison to where he had just dropped off his own load of freshly smelted ore, where lay that broad opening in the wall of rock. "Min gryth," he pronounced slowly, and Maitimo recognized those words from earlier. The deep-voice Elf's eyebrows canted up slightly and drew together in a clear question of whether Maitimo understood him, gesturing more firmly towards the crevice. "Gryth."

He was referring to the tunnels, Maitimo realized as he followed their fingers to stare at the lone tunnel next to the multiple transportation devices, where this damned Elf with the limp could apparently be found. He looked back at them. "Gryth?"

They all nodded. "Gryth."

Well all right, then.

Maitimo opened his mouth to speak further, having the notion that he could maybe somehow ask where in the tunnels Múlamudas was – because the Valar knew he had certainly figured out that these passages were far from easy to navigate – but just then another blast of the Orc-horn suddenly erupted throughout the cavern, sounding again like it came from the chimney itself. With a speed that completely belied the fatigued set of their scrawny bodies, the eight Elves sprung to their feet and rushed back to the bloomeries – or hobbling, in the case of a few. At the same time, the Orcs stirred from where they had been docilely meandering, several emerging from the deeper shadows of the cavern as they barked out short words in Edhellen to the passing Elves, some shouting "Mudo!" more than once.

All the Moriquendi were moving and Maitimo did not delay a moment longer before pushing against the wall to rise to his feet. Valar, he had not even finished his meat, had barely been afforded any time to do so. He quickly downed the rest of it while he made his way to the smelter, ducking behind other smelters and the Elves stationed there to steer clear of Orc gazes.

Neither scar-Elf nor third-Elf spoke to him, but they did stare at him for a long, pregnant moment before returning to the billow and shoveling respectively, tossing glances his way every once in a while like they usually did. Maitimo ignored them, ignored all the gazes of the Moriquendi in the vicinity he could feel and took up his own shovel, not bothering to check on the progress of their latest ingot, which he knew could not be finished smelting yet. It was not long before sweat started to bead along his brow again, but his throat now felt so deprived of moisture that it hurt to merely breathe. That meat was bliss on his stomach but had been like a felloe-less wagon wheel on his throat.

He kept working, not even feeling the slightest more invigorated after the break, but he was determined to keep pace with the Moriquendi since that was what the Orcs seemed satisfied with. But now Maitimo kept shooting his eyes up to look sharply in between and around the bloomeries, both to hopefully spot Múlamudas appearing in the mouth of one of the tunnels and to hopefully not spot the Orc-speaker, who was still gone. Or was he just waiting on the other side of the smithy's mouth for Maitimo to act up again? But with Múlamudas….Maitimo sighed dismally. Even if he now knew where to search, he still had no idea what the Elf with the limp looked like. Only that he had a limp. Which at least two dozen Elves had, and countless more were on their way to limping simply from ruined feet.

Every time he caught movement in the right tunnels from the corner of his eye he whipped around to look. He saw ten pairs of Elves coming or going, bearing the skins of amassed ore on their shoulders, though he could not see in which direction they turned if entering the smithy. Nor could he tell if any were limping. He swore that three of them were, but all were dark-haired and barefoot, only one wearing a shirt, and Maitimo just could not tell which one might be this Elf with the limp unless he went over there and interrogated every one of them. But then the Orcs would be on him, and then the Orc-speaker shortly after them if he resisted. He had to keep the Orc-speaker away, at least until he could think.

At one point Maitimo rose from the bloom bed with a grimace, the muscles in his back searing as he heaved up another blistering ingot. He turned towards the tunnels and started the trudging walk towards the ingot piles but nearly froze in his steps when his eyes alighted on two Elves hovering over the carrier. Both were dark-haired with any healthy weight melted off their frames and only one wore a shirt. They spoke briefly to each other, the shirtless Elf looking worried over whatever the other one said, but Maitimo's eyes widened as the shirted Elf walked around the carrier to the other end of its shafts. Like many others he was limping, but this Moriquendë practically buckled upon each step, barely touching his left foot to the ground before collapsing all of his weight on his right. He dragged his left foot behind him when he could, arms flailing along his sides to keep his balance, but it still did not stop him from looking as though he was about to fall over with each step.

Maitimo quirked an eyebrow. Now _that_ was a limp.

* * *

Quendian: "When historians needed a general adjective 'Quendian, belonging to the Elves as a whole', they made the new adjective _Quenderin_ , but this remained a learned word." [HoME _Quendi and Eldar_ XI.407]


	21. Múlamudas

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 **Chapter 21:  
Múlamudas**

Valar, this was ridiculous. Resisting the temptation to rush over to that Elf then and there was not easy. He had even listed forward to do so, hands twitching to lean the shovel against the bloomery. But he forced himself to be rational. Not cowardly, rational. Making his way to that Elf was one thing, but finding the time to initiate a conversation was another, doubly so when his Edhellen fumbled past his lips as it did. Unless he followed the Elf into the tunnel, there was no way to prevent being caught walking away from his work. Unless Múlamudas somehow came to him at the bloomery without being seen by the Orcs, but to hope he would (or could) was preposterous. Of course, that Elf might not even be this Múlamudas, but if that limp was not a limp at its finest then he direly needed to be reeducated on just what a limp was.

No, he had to wait, wait however accursedly long that might wind up being. Maitimo clenched his jaw as he agitatedly worked the shovel into the lump that had just been restocked again. He would not risk garnering the attention of the Orcs, which would probably again result in the Orc-speaker, but he now knew that he had to contend with the Moriquendi as well, which was so wrong and backwards that it made his knuckles go white as he gripped the tool's shaft. These Elves were clearly as unwilling as the Orcs were to let any disturbance interrupt their labor's progress, even to the point of dropping their own tools to openly drag him back by the arms while screaming whatever Edhellen they screamed at him. Of course, he would not be trying to attack an Orc this time, but it all still boiled down to the fact that he truly had no idea what to expect of these Moriquendi, even if it were something as simple as approaching one of them. Because if they were to react to him, even just by holding him back for whatever reason, it would surely attract the Orcs' notice. Which would probably again result in the Orc-speaker.

And if the Orc-speaker returned, he might as well forget that he even spotted that Elf with the limp.

So Maitimo spent the next several hours watching when he could risk a glance. Watching for when Orcs were not looking his way so that he could quickly peer between the bloomeries to the carriers lining the right wall of the smithy, watching those particular Elves emerge from a tunnel with an empty carrier only to switch it out with one lying ready on the floor, loaded with iron ore. They still moved in pairs, but Maitimo noticed after many of their rotations that some came and went alone, bearing a contraption on their backs meant for one person instead of the double-shafted canvas, much like the staved-wood sacks those from the fuel pit carried the charcoal in. He watched them and watched for maybe-Múlamudas to reappear. But if he had, it was when Maitimo was not looking and besides, what would he do if he saw him again? Just mosey on over there with empty hands? No, he had to be carrying an ingot. That was the only reason any Elf went to the carriers as far as he was aware. But he had no way to make that delivery coincide with whenever Múlamudas entered the smithy. He could not make the bloomery smelt the iron any faster, could not make the ingot cool any faster, and he sure as by the Void could not walk any faster. Valar, just how was he supposed to time this to make it work? He kept on with his sporadic glances towards the tunnels, his movements growing more agitated as he continued to ignore the many Moriquendi stares. That was another thing. How was he supposed to make his way to that Elf without the Moriquendi knowing if the Moriquendi kept looking at him?

Valar, this was ridiculous.

And so when he saw the Elf with the limp suddenly emerge from the tunnel, Maitimo's eyes widened as he froze where he knelt. His mind raced frantically for only a split moment before he abruptly lifted up the porous mass of iron from the bloom bed with the tongs. Third-Elf stumbled quickly out of the way of the steaming ingot, glaring at Maitimo as he dropped it onto the skin, tossing the tongs aside and hastily gathering the corners.

"Ai!" third-Elf hissed anxiously over the furnace's thrum, still glaring at Maitimo in mild incredulity. "Man carodh? Ú-nonen–"

"Please!" he whispered urgently, eyes flicking over to Múlamudas before turning back to look up at third-Elf. He gave a short but insistent shake of his head. "Please. Do not."

But third-Elf had followed his gaze, slag hammer held limply in his hand. He looked back down at Maitimo, his expression softening as he gave a near indiscernible nod of his head. Maitimo could not stop the elated rise in his chest. It _was_ Múlamudas!

He nodded towards third-Elf, putting as much gratitude in the small gesture as he could, and watched as he quickly scuttled around to the other side of the bloomery while he himself continued with hastily bunching the corners together to hold the weight of the unfinished ingot. All of the clinging slag had not been completely hammered off the ingot, which would necessitate a resmelting of the whole nugget for it to be of any use at all. But there was no reason the Orcs would be able to tell the ingot was unfinished unless they demanded he open the sack, which had never happened yet. Besides, all these smelted lumps of ore would have to be resmelted anyway. Beating the slag from the ingot's surface did not remove the smaller particles that had found their way inside the ore or imbedded themselves in the exterior. Resmelting ore twice over was always done and his father had even repeated the process a third time to ensure the purest consistency in the metal. But Maitimo had quickly given up earlier on with trying to figure out why the smelting was only done one time before the ingots were carried off to the Valar knew where – the material was practically unusable unless thrown in another furnace. But nothing here made sense, which in turn made no sense because Moringotto would not be so senseless!

Bleh. If the unfinished ingot helped him make his way to Múlamudas, he could not care less about its state.

Maitimo hefted up the skin, muscles in his shoulder burning as he held it outward and away from his body while he moved as quickly as his foot would let him. And prudently. Maitimo's eyes flicked around as he weaved through the bloomeries and the Elves working them, taking a path that was less clogged with Orcs and more filled with bustling Elves, though Orcs patrolling around a smelter made Maitimo slow down on more than one occasion. The Moriquendi's eyes followed him as he passed and trained on him when he neared – nothing new on that front – and several stepped away at the sight of the skin sack; everyone knew what blistering hot thing lay inside and Maitimo quite doubted that there was any salve for burns down here.

His heart started to beat a little harder. Múlamudas had not disappeared inside the tunnel yet, bustling around two carriers with his extreme limp, but Maitimo was pained to move faster. Though hindered by the worst limp he had seen so far, Múlamudas still moved rather quickly. Even as he had the thought, Múlamudas was squatting down with the majority of his weight on his right leg, hefting the one-manned carrier onto his back and leaning against the wall to pull himself to a stand. The muscles and tendons in his neck strained as the Elf's face cringed with the effort, his right leg quivering.

But now he was disappearing back into the darkness of the tunnel. Maitimo looked both ways before passing by the last of the bloomeries, his mind flying. The logical thing to do would be to dispose of the ingot on the double-shafted carrier, the one Múlamudas had ignored in favor for the one-manned carrier, so that any Moriquendi watching him (or Orcs for that matter) would see him doing the proper thing. And he could feel multiple eyes on him, had for so long a time that he was beginning to grow numb to it.

But there was no reason for him to go into that tunnel empty-handed. Valar, there was no reason for him to go into that tunnel with an ingot either. And he would lose the time spent on relieving the skin of the ore without severely scalding himself, crouching down to see that the ingot did not roll off the carrier. Yes, it was only a few extra moments, but he knew nothing of this tunnel system and in that pitiless dark, a few moments could be all it took to find himself lost.

He took the iron with him.

Maitimo moved along the carriers, crouching down and trying to move along as deep as he could into the cast shadows, bypassing the carriers altogether and nearing the crevice in the wall, only so broad as to allow maybe three Elves to stand abreast. He did not waste the time to pause and look over his shoulder to see if any Orcs were looking his way – they either did or did not by this point, and he might be spotted by wasting the time to check to see if he had been spotted instead of slinking into the tunnel. To the Void with that.

 _Clang!_

Maitimo jumped, spinning around. He recognized the sound of tongs being dropped on other tools, but it appeared to come from near the middle of the bloomeries. Several Orcs were making a ruckus as they rushed over to said smelter, several Moriquendi looking to see the commotion before turning away and working twice as hastily. Maitimo barely spared the cavern a glance, taking advantage of the distraction and pushing headlong through the crevice and into the tunnel.

The light from the smithy barely penetrated the darkness, but Maitimo kept his free hand scraping along the unsmooth wall, taking large steps to avoid tripping on any unsuspected nooks on the floor. He just had to hurry. Múlamudas could not be moving that fast, especially with the load of ore he was carrying. They both had limps, but he knew Múlamudas' was worse. He was almost tempted to shout the Elf's name but gritted his teeth and shuffled along faster, ignoring the pain that tore through his ankle in bright, bold bursts. He could hear Múlamudas up ahead, heard the slight echoing of his awkward gate. Come now, just a little closer so that he could whisper! Come on!

Wait a moment….Just wait a moment. Maitimo stared ahead in consternation. He could see him! Not distinctly, and not only by the very shallow glow he emitted, but there must be some kind of a light source further in the tunnel that filtered back to them, enough to silhouette Múlamudas and his lumbering shadow as he rounded another bend in the twisting tunnel and disappeared from sight.

Curse it. Maitimo began running. Limp-running. He gasped at the pain, the ingot crashing against the wall as he used both hands to guide himself, stumbling as he ascended uneven steps. He rounded the bend, eyes alighting on Múlamudas just ahead as the noise of the smithy receded into distant bangs. "Psst!" This area of the tunnel was lighter and he saw Múlamudas' head snap up from where it hung towards his chest. "Múlamudas!" he hissed as loud as he could, not daring to raise his voice just yet, not when it could still echo back to the smithy.

Múlamudas turned away, taking another extreme limp forward. A pained grunt followed. "Ego!" he harshly tossed over his shoulder. "Avon dartho maetho i anghaw hen angin!"

Maitimo closed the last few paces between them and reached out with his free hand around the carrier, grabbing and pulling on the Elf's shoulder. "Wait."

"Ego!" Múlamudas smacked the hand away, turning with a slight glare and apparently unaware that Maitimo was not even speaking Edhellen. But the Elf spun around so fast that, combined with his lame foot, he fell over to crash against the wall. Maitimo tried to catch him, but Múlamudas fell all the way, the weight of the carrier throwing off his balance and he landed on top of his left foot with a bit off cry. Maitimo winced.

Múlamudas softly growled. "Bannos mabo den, nin ú-narannenodh aen man–" Múlamudas looked up to glare at him in full, but the vicious snarl was abruptly cut short when, like Únad, his eyes traveled up to settle on Maitimo's face. Múlamudas' eyes flicked back and forth between Maitimo's, the annoyance in his face morphing into a strange, almost intrigued expression as his eyes slightly narrowed. "Ai," he murmured, gaze still perusing Maitimo's visage. He gave an absent nod. "Noner thand, cenin, idh lyss e-lachend." The words were muttered under his breath and Múlamudas cocked his head to the side, much like a chicken would.

Maitimo frowned at the shift in his tone, just managing to recognize that last word and he shook his head several times. "I do not speak Edhellen." He lifted his eyebrows in question, though they creased anxiously nonetheless. "Quendian? You speak Quendian?"

Múlamudas raised an eyebrow, his lip faintly curling in distaste. "Yes, _dan elbereth velui_ , stop speaking Edhellen. _Remmirath_ , so bad."

Oh Valar….Maitimo swayed at the sudden dizziness, the relief so palpable as it washed over him that, for a moment, he could not even breathe. Moisture burned his eyes and Maitimo viciously shoved it back, refusing to make a fool of himself now. He opened his mouth to speak, but Múlamudas was hauling himself back upward to an awkward stand, pulling himself up the wall and staring at Maitimo the entire way. The intrigued expression was still intact and he looked Maitimo over before returning to his eyes. "Is true you not speak Edhellen, then?"

Maitimo frowned slightly but nodded anyway, frantically digging up the Quenderin deeply buried somewhere in his brain. "Too little. Not enough."

"Ah." Múlamudas looked him up and down again, clicking his tongue as he stared back at Maitimo, a humorless smile twisting his mouth. "Might want to fix. Go away." He turned around, limping forward another step.

Maitimo's hand snapped out to grab his shoulder again. "No! Wait!"

" _Baw!_ " He smacked the hand away. "No yourself, _úchannas_ ," he spat, spinning back around. He almost fell over again but slapped a hand against the wall to steady himself. "You dally outside horn. _Ego, ego!_ " He shoved a hand against Maitimo's chest, brow crinkling in a mixture of anger and anxiety. "I not be beaten for you!"

Maitimo glared at him. "What–"

The sudden horn blast startled both of them and both snapped their heads around to peer in the direction Maitimo came from. Neither spoke. Maitimo stared into the pitch blackness, the sound of Múlamudas panting beside him now the only noise to be heard. He waited, but damn it all, no second horn blast came. Maitimo twisted his jaw, glare turning into a glower. Pff. Of course no second horn came. Who was to say a day within this cave was given the same length of time as a day outside of it? But wait – another single horn blast….Did that mean they were allotted a second break today? That was what the first horn seemed to signify.

He turned to Múlamudas for an answer but leaned back against the wall in wary surprise at the suspicious scowl he was receiving. Valar, what was wrong with this Moriquendë now?

Múlamudas narrowed his eyes further. "How you do that?"

Maitimo scrunched up his face with another mildly mordant glare. "Do what? I did nothing." He gestured behind him. "You say of the…the thing?"

"Hm." The scowl eased, though Múlamudas continued to stare at him as he awkwardly lowered himself back to the ground. "Go away."

Maitimo watched, mind scrambling uselessly for something to say as the Elf stretched out his legs across the floor of the tunnel, wrestling the carrier off his back with a gasp of either pain or relief and collapsing against the wall. He was heaving in air, but he continued to peer at Maitimo with an almost invasive stare and Maitimo looked away. Almost against his will, his eyes latched onto Múlamudas' left foot and they widened, mouth falling slightly open. Valar, that foot was not just injured. It was broken. Not sprained or damaged as his had been, but actually broken. The light in the tunnel was very minimal and Maitimo still had no clue how further along the tunnel its source had to be, but just enough was filtering to where he and Múlamudas were for Maitimo to be able to see the noticeably crooked malformation of Múlamudas' ankle. He was no healer, but that had to be a clean break, maybe several. Great Manwë, how was Múlamudas even able to put weight on it, let alone walk? It was impossible!

"Múlamudas…." He gave a small shake of his head, gesturing towards the stretched out foot as he worked his brain, but he could not remember the word for 'ankle' for the life of him. "Your…foot. It is broke."

Múlamudas huffed. "Really?" he intoned, voice liberally dripping with sarcasm. "Go away."

Maitimo made a face, shaking his head again. "No. Broke, yes, but you need it set. Fixed. Before it heals like that."

Múlamudas finally looked away, turning his glower on his ankle before lowering his eyes to his lap. "It already did. Go away."

Maitimo regarded him sharply before looking again at the ankle, frowning. He was right, he realized. The ankle was misshapen far from what a normal ankle looked like, but none of the skin around it was bruised, had no deep colorization that came only from broken bones, and not even swollen. The skin was clear. Filthy and with several abrasions, but clear. Maitimo sighed, resignation sweeping over him.

He lowered himself to the ground, letting the ingot drop with a careless clatter before sitting to face Múlamudas by leaning against the opposite wall, stretching out his legs as well. He briefly closed his eyes, relishing in how good it felt, especially on his own left ankle, which was still beautifully discolored. But he opened them again only to find Múlamudas staring at him. Again. Maitimo stared back, lifting an eyebrow. Well, he certainly shared that much in common with the other Moriquendi; their apparent inability to stop looking at him. Múlamudas broke eye-contact first, looking down to silently stare at Maitimo's sack-covered ingot instead.

Maitimo pursed his lips. Well then. He glanced back down the tunnel, gaze contemplative as he gestured towards it. Múlamudas' eyes followed. "That…h-horn." He motioned uncertainly with his hands, suppressing a mote of frustration. Valar, he was beyond out of practice with Quenderin. "One horn is rest from–" He pointed down the tunnel. "–from labor? Our work?"

Múlamudas nodded, finally relenting a little bit in the raptness of his stare as he relaxed his head against the wall. "Yes," he muttered. "One horn always rest. Two horns time to sleep. Three horns…." A noise emerged from his throat that sounded in between a chortle and a scoff, the side of his mouth twisting upwards while his eyes darkened. "No three."

Maitimo frowned. "What is three horns?"

Múlamudas shook his head dismissively, combing his hair behind his ears. "I not know word. Not want to hear three." He glanced at Maitimo before looking away again. "Go away."

Maitimo's frown deepened, but not only at the continual shunning. It was a task just trying to make out what he was saying. Múlamudas' Quenderin was heavily accented, some syllables intoned in ways he had never heard before and there were many words Maitimo had to take the time to actually spell out in his head to make sure he was hearing what he thought he was. But he could not be too annoyed. If Múlamudas' Quenderin was this accented, his own must be just as heavily influenced by Quenya and probably sounded just as distorted to Múlamudas. It was difficult to guess Múlamudas' age, though it was obvious he was a learnt Elf if he turned out not to be at least Maitimo's age or older. He did not know if Múlamudas was also having trouble with actually communicating in the ancient speech beyond forgetting a word or two or if it was his own rusty memory that was twisting Múlamudas' words when going through his ears. The side of Maitimo's mouth twitched upwards. Valar, his father would love this right now.

Múlamudas' eyebrows hiked up at his flicker of a smile, but Maitimo ignored it. "So," he sighed, twisting his jaw. Just what was he supposed to say? "You are Múlamudas?"

Múlamudas stared, absently pulling on a loose thread dangling from his leggings. "Obviously."

Maitimo frowned at the cantankerous undertone, narrowing his eyes. After a moment he gave a small, bewildered shake of his head. "I understand bitter– being bitter in this pit, but why you so hostile to me?"

Múlamudas' forehead creased slightly. "Why I so what?"

Maitimo hesitated. "Ah…." Great. Either he himself was mangling the word or Múlamudas did not know it himself. He resisted tapping his head against the rock wall. Come now. Another one, another one. "Mean. Why you so…mean?" He grimaced slightly at how it sounded out loud. As if that did not make him sound like a whining little toddler. "No Elf act this way with me yet. Only you. Why? I do nothing to earn this…behavior." And it was true. If Múlamudas was like any other Moriquendë in these caves, his reaction to him made no sense, save for the endless staring, and Maitimo was already growing tired of the continual glower.

Múlamudas was silent, his stare persisting as he tugged faster at the string. Did he not know how to blink or something? It was almost startling when his gaze darted away, openly moving down Maitimo's chest to the garment tied around his waist. He released the loose thread to gesture briefly at the shirt, eyes flitting back up to Maitimo's. "Do not part from that shirt."

Maitimo glanced down at it, looking up with a frown. "What?"

He shrugged, staring again. "Is that not-mean enough?"

Maitimo looked at him, the frown deepening and mind spinning on the matter of just how he was supposed to reply to that.

Múlamudas finally averted his gaze, running the back of his hand against his mouth. "Nice hair," he murmured. "What you do to lose it?"

Maitimo's hands twitched in his lap as he became acutely aware of the emptiness along the back of his neck, of how well the skin of his back could feel the texture of the rock wall he leaned against. Gritty, cool, bumpy. Maitimo glared at Múlamudas, chest churning with something that ran hotly through his veins, but he forced himself still. He did not know what was more annoying, Múlamudas' mockery of his hair or his insinuation that he would actually allow it to be filched. But Valar, he would be damned if he gave into the temptation to feel for hair that was not there, especially when this Múlamudas was raising his eyebrow at him again.

Maitimo clenched his jaw, giving a slow shake of his head at the Elf. "Nothing."

He scoffed, looking somewhere off into the tunnel. " _Furas_."

Maitimo narrowed his eyes at the barely muttered word. "Pardon?"

Múlamudas looked back at him. "You may be new come here, Lachend, but–"

"Maitimo."

"What?"

"My name is Maitimo," he said slowly and concisely.

Up went the eyebrow. He twisted his jaw. "Huh." He tilted his head, the stare diffusing into something more curious. "I suppose you not have name in language you not speak."

Maitimo only nodded, somewhat sarcastically. He did not want to be mocking, but Aulë help him, he was already becoming exasperated. He frowned again, eyes searching for anything to read in Múlamudas' face. "What is your problem with me, Múlamudas? Or is being…like this amuse you?"

Múlamudas made a face. " _Avno'gron_ ," he shot out. "It is true, is it not? You not here to help us." His expression darkened as he looked up towards the ceiling of the tunnel. " _Balagerch_ ," he groaned, or maybe cursed, his face pained as his hands flexed several times. " _Hen agor nan thel 'waur_."

Maitimo leaned forward and outstretched a hand, snapping his fingers. Múlamudas looked back at him. "In _Quendian_ , please. What you say?"

He gestured towards the smithy, eyes not leaving Maitimo as his eyebrows drew together bleakly. "They talk and talk. I hear it. And they all keep ask me if it true, if you here to help." His expression contorted into that familiar bitterness again as a knowing, mocking grin played at his mouth. "But you not, are you? Even if you come from _dor-rodyn_ , you not here to help us. I know it."

Maitimo stared at him, mildly incredulous as the words filtered through his brain. For several long moments he seriously contemplated that he was just misunderstanding, but none of the words fell out of place. His brow furrowed in confusion and he gestured helplessly. "Help you?" he clarified.

Múlamudas nodded. "Yes, but you not, are you?"

"What do you say, help you?"

Múlamudas did not answer and for a moment looked like he was not going to at all. But his gaze slid away, losing its intensity as he blinked several times. "To save us," he mumbled, looking everywhere but at Maitimo.

Save them….Maitimo mouthed the words, rendered silent this time by the implication. An implication that kept growing clearer with every time it turned over in his head. He could only meet Múlamudas' gaze helplessly as the Elf stared at him expectantly, almost hungrily and even he dared to say with a smidgen of reluctant hopefulness beneath it all. Maitimo breathed out, leaning back against the wall again. He shook his head. "I am not here to help you."

There really had been a hopeful spark in the Moriquendë's eye, and Maitimo only knew it because it died and disappeared immediately, replaced again by that invasive, bitter haze. "Yes, I know," he grunted with a tight nod. He glanced away, muscle in his jaw ticking. " _Rhach am gin_ ," he added in a harsh whisper.

Maitimo scowled. "Eh!" he barked. "Enough with your Edhellen. And with what you say." He rested his head against the wall, absently rocking it back and forth as he went over every single word and half-word he had articulated in both languages since first being in the presence of these Moriquendi. But his mind came up blank and he glared at Múlamudas, torn between whether he should feel troubled or exasperated. "Not once," he enunciated clearly, "did I say I am–" He motioned around the tunnel. "–here to help. _Valar_ , I not even know Edhellen word for help!"

"But you not say no!" Múlamudas said insistently. He crossed his arms over his chest but unfolded them almost immediately with a grimace, as if the slight move pained him. He gestured back down the tunnel again. "Now everyone speaks, wonders if you came to help, _únauthach_." He looked away with a glower, fiddling harder with the thread. "And 'help' is _alio_ ," he added in a grumble.

"You make more questions than you answer, Elf. I not say no? Say no to what?"

Múlamudas sighed again, mild exasperation morphing his expression as he pointed impatiently towards Maitimo's waist. "To that Elf. Who gave you shirt. He ask if you come to save us. You did not say no!"

Maitimo stared at him in complete incredulity now. "You think I know what he said?" he demanded with a hint of anger. "When I not know Edhellen? _Aulë á alyanyë_ , how could I–" He paused, brow furrowing into something more concentrated as Múlamudas' words circled through his mind again. "How know you what he said to me?"

"He told me, _únauthach_."

Maitimo hesitated, the image of shirt-Elf's face flashing in his mind. "What is his name?"

"Ask him yourself."

Maitimo slowly worked his jaw. "I cannot speak Edhellen, remember?"

"Not my problem."

Maitimo met the words with a cool stare, remaining silent for a long pause before he leaned forward. He did not stop leaning forward until Múlamudas pushed back against his own wall, inimical gaze shifting into something more wary. Maitimo held up a warning finger. "Let me say something and say it clear," he said softly, his eyes hard. "I came here not two days ago. Only yesterday, dragged here only to have my hair stole and clothes ripped from me. And, _ló quanda melehtë Valaiva_ , my mind is this close to edge! I am lucky to understand one Edhellen word and while I understand being bitter, I not sit here and…and hear your – your not-pleasure for me not being who you people hope I am. I not know why you even think it! That you do is…." Curse it, what was the word for ridiculous? "And I – I…." Maitimo shut his eyes and leaned back against the wall, running a hand roughly over his face. Damn it all, why could he not have been able to learn Edhellen before coming here? His thoughts were growing so scrabbled and frustrated that piecing the Quenderin to speak them was becoming impossible. "I am here not full day and have no idea what is happening."

"Ah." Múlamudas' face softened somewhat, though that rancorous quality still remained. A quality, Maitimo belatedly recognized, that had been there before Múlamudas had even realized who he was, before Maitimo had even grabbed hold of his shoulder. Múlamudas raised an eyebrow in question. "So then why you here to disturb my day's bout of self-pity?"

"I–" Maitimo faltered, lapsing into silence almost instantly as he realized that he had never thought past finding Múlamudas. He had just been so focused on finally speaking with someone who knew Quenderin, to finally just _talk_ with someone in this place where he could not communicate with anyone that he had not considered why he should go to Múlamudas in the first place, why he even bothered. What he should even say, or ask. Maitimo deflated a bit as Múlamudas continued to peer at him, who seemed to deflate a little himself as he waited, head tilting to the side. "I not know. I was told to find you, that you speak Quendian." He huffed. "You are hard to find."

"I was in the Low Smithy at least dozen times today and saw you plenty. Look harder."

Maitimo did a double take, wondering if he interpreted a word wrong. " _Low_ Smithy?"

A look of understanding dawned in Múlamudas' eyes and he gave a knowing nod, still staring. "Be stuck with smelters, have you?" He gave a low chortle, though not at Maitimo it seemed since he slid his eyes down and away. "Pray you stay with them. More worse in High Smithy."

Maitimo motioned him to stop. "There is another smithy?"

"Well, where you think this…this–" He gestured towards his load of iron. "–this _tinc angren_ goes each time you see it go in tunnels?"

"But…." Maitimo shook his head doggedly, looking from the ore-filled carrier to Múlamudas. "I wondered, but the Elves are in this smithy." The solemn, slightly dubious look on Múlamudas' face made him pause, a seed of foreboding sprouting in the back of his mind. "Are they not?" he added. Valar, he hoped the question was rhetorical. "I know now there are more than the fifty or so Elves I first seen, but–"

"Fifty?" Múlamudas echoed in disbelief, eyebrows climbing up. He blinked a time or three, as if wondering if he himself had heard wrongly this time. "You said fifty?"

Maitimo swallowed, hesitating only briefly. "How many of you are here?"

"Oh." He relaxed again, shrugging a shoulder as he went back to pulling at the thread. "I not know. Hundreds. I quit counting."

"Hundreds…." The word faded away and Maitimo could only stare, body growing still as the full implication of the answer pieced together in his mind. Múlamudas was watching him, waiting expectantly at the dangling response, and Maitimo gave a short nod of his head. "Oh," he replied, simply for the sake of saying something.

Múlamudas clicked his tongue. "Smart _únauthach_."

Maitimo barely heard the murmur, mind already drifting back to the attestation of just how many Moriquendi were in these pits. He could see the vastness of the smithy, the layout of the glowing bloomeries and the Moriquendi hunching or hovering around them, the fuel pit and that other cavern pocket he had yet to see the inside of, the smelter smoke pluming up to the inverted funnel of a ceiling….To fill that whole cavern to the brim with the two hundred bodies it could easily house and then to multiply that smithy by two, by five, by ten. How many smithy caverns would it take to equal the number Múlamudas was inferring? Maitimo could scarcely envision that number of thralls here, so much so that he wanted to call Múlamudas a liar, but to know that those numbers were real…and to magnify that with the consideration of how they all looked – Valar, how Múlamudas currently looked right now!

Maitimo's eyes focused from the daze they had settled in and less unobtrusively than he should have, he could not help but run his gaze over Múlamudas. Over the tattered leggings that were torn off at the knee like all the others (something that was still baffling to no end), over the threadbare shirt that hung dangerously from his thin frame, over the brittle wrists that protruded from sloppily rolled up sleeves, over the countless bones that should never show so ghastly beneath the skin that stretched over it but did, and over bare feet that were so weathered and blackened that Maitimo doubted any amount of scouring would reverse it. How long would it take for his own feet to look like that, to take on the appearance more of leather than actual skin? His eyes traveled up a ways. Or for his hands to be so calloused that they could not even blister anymore, he added dolefully as he watched Múlamudas' sinewy hands, one of which was still tugging at the loose thread while the other scratched incessantly at the ground by his thigh. His eyes traveled up more, past the exposure of gaunt ribs he could see at the deep collar of his shirt and to the mess of hair on his head. Maitimo's own locks felt disgusting on their own, especially at the scalp, but he had never seen hair as filthy with grime as Múlamudas' was now. Valar, how long did it take for hair to be like that?

His eyes flitted across Múlamudas' dark expression, ignoring the steady stare the Elf still leveled on him despite the exhaustive haze that glazed over his eyes like a film, that thickened and then receded depending on how he looked at Maitimo. Right now his eyes were clear for the most part, though he still blinked many times. But Múlamudas' stare was now turning into an open glare as he again pressed himself flat against the wall, fingers moving faster against his leg.

"What?" he snapped defensively, bringing his knees halfway to his chest.

Maitimo raised an eyebrow, lightly pursing his lips. "You are uneasy around me."

Múlamudas scowled. "Do not think yourself so high."

Maitimo glanced down pointedly at his hands, raising both eyebrows now. "You are fidgeting."

"I am cold."

Maitimo almost wanted to scoff at the absurdity of that but managed to shove down the bark that rose in his chest, though he could not quite stop his mouth from twitching. "Hard to believe when I see sweat on your brow."

Múlamudas' scowl deepened as he stilled his hands and clenched them into loose fists. "You be here for one day, Lachend," he snarled. "Be here long as me and you be fidgeting too. Now go away."

"Stop telling me–"

"No, Lachend," he bit out harshly, but then he suddenly sighed, collapsing against the wall as though that final bark had driven whatever energy he had left out of his body. His expression was still less than cordial, his intense stare steady, but now he just looked exhausted as he tilted his head back to lay it against the rock, moving his eyes to meet Maitimo's, that haze over them deepening again. He lifted an arm and pointed down the tunnel towards the smithy, letting it drop back to the floor. "These horns not last forever. You dally outside horn and not supposed to be here." He pointed again, more insistently. "Go before blows again. Not worth it."

Maitimo hesitated but relented with a small sigh. He supposed it would be wise to listen in this instance. Between the two of them, Múlamudas was the one who would know the duration of the horns better than him. With another quick breath, he hauled himself to his one and a half feet, pulling on what nooks he could find along the wall. He ignored how Múlamudas watched him the whole way, his eyes running along the lines of his body again before settling on his face and perusing it as captivatedly as he had the first time. He ignored that too.

Maitimo looked down at him. "One more thing."

Múlamudas snorted. "What?"

"Are there any others? Any more speak Quendian?"

"Aw, my company not nice?"

"I said you were hard to find. I was fortunate this time. But if there are others I can talk with…." He gestured uncertainly. "High chance I not see you again and–"

"You will." Múlamudas nodded at Maitimo's questioning look, giving a tight smile that was empty of any real humor. "You see. You will be in mines. If not mines, then carriage like me."

A slight frown made its way into his face. "What say you?"

Múlamudas once again trailed his eyes over Maitimo's body, but this time just momentarily before he quirked an eyebrow at him. "You have strong back still, and a nice one." His gaze flitted down to hover around Maitimo's shoulders and chest. He snorted, looking away to his right. "Enjoy your skin while it lasts."

"Answer the question."

Múlamudas made a slight face but relented. "No."

Maitimo gave a small shake of his head as his frown intensified. Valar, that was not the answer he wanted to hear. "You are certain?"

He nodded again, more blearily this time. "I think. I not know." His turned his eyes down into his lap, jaw ticking once more as he pulled at the thread now with both hands. "Go."

Maitimo exhaled, dismissing the sullen pall that settled over him as he leaned over and snatched up the ingot, figuring Múlamudas would not appreciate it if he just dumped it in his carrier with the rest. He shifted on his feet to turn, adjusting his grip on the bunched up skin, but before he took more than two steps back the way he came he had to stop, twisting back around to look at the Moriquendë. Múlamudas was watching him again and he raised his eyebrows at Maitimo's somewhat troubled expression as Maitimo looked from him to his ankle and back again. He wetted his lips, nodding towards the Elf's ankle. "I am no healer, but you must have…foot healed. Broke again to heal. Not by me, but there must be an Elf–"

" _Ego, ogron!_ " he practically hissed. " _Ego!_ Been like this for years. Go away!" He turned away.

Maitimo froze. Years? Something sprouted in the back of his mind that he wanted to snuff out, wanted to deny. What Múlamudas just said, just inferred….His breath caught in the back of his throat as he thickly swallowed. "How long you been here?"

Múlamudas appeared startled by the harshness of his tone and seemed even more perturbed by whatever he then saw in Maitimo's face. He gave another minute shrug, shoulders tensing as he watched Maitimo warily. "Ten." His face crinkled with uncertainty. "I think. Might be more. Less. Cannot really count anymore."

Ten years….Ten – now wait a moment. These Moriquendi calculated time differently than the Amaneldi did. That had been one of the first factors of these Elves' culture they determined when some manner of understanding had been gained from Lord Neldoron and the Mithrim. Their years were different, measured by means of a different way. Some explanation about the rotations of constellations or something. It was very reminiscent of the Teleri's methods of measurement, but Alqualondë's length of years, even days, had still been the same as the Noldor and Vanyar and Valar's. These Moriquendi, however, had shorter years. Quite shorter. How many Endórë years equaled one year? He could swear it was somewhere near a dozen, maybe a little less; it was why the number ten rang so clearly in his head. They had never troubled themselves with measuring their crossing of Hísilómë in Endórë time, though they had still yet to learn just how it was figured. Why bother when they had their own easy timetable that had yet to fail them even without the waxing of the Trees to measure it? But here in Endórë, it was around ten of their years to equal one. His father had managed to glean that much from Lord Neldoron. One year….More or less, Múlamudas had been here for one year.

"What?"

Maitimo's vision clouded over as the full implication of that struck him. For one whole swiving year Múlamudas had been in these caves? Had all the Moriquendi been here that long? The apparently hundreds or even thousands of them? That was not what necessarily rendered Maitimo speechless, however much it froze him where he stood. What made him speechless what was he was finding when searching his memory, going back one year ago. Which meant….Maitimo's breath caught in his throat. Which meant that – Because one year ago….

A year ago they had still been in Tirion. And Valar, not just in Tirion and before crossing any Sea. A year ago, Fëanáro's coronation had not even happened yet, his crafting of the new Crown had not happened yet, their Oath had not happened yet, their Flight had not happened yet – great Manwë, the mere suggestion of even going to Endórë had not happened yet! Had not even come into conception! Or if it had, the idea's seed had still been planted deep in Fëanáro's mind. They had only just commemorated Finwë, the Noldor of Formenos reintegrating with those of Tirion while all of Valinor was turned upside down at the very real happening of needing to crown a new Noldóran in the wake of the Two Trees' deaths, all the while trying to come to terms with the weight of it all.

" _What?_ "

Maitimo's heart was pounding. So just what did that mean? That while they had been bemoaning the Dark, lamenting the lack of Light….Maitimo's spare hand twitched. While all that had been happening, Moriquendi meanwhile were being enthralled. Hundreds being enthralled while the Amaneldi sang their woeful songs in memory of the Trees, everyone arguing and in a tumble over trying to recover from Moringotto's blow to their happy livelihood. And Moriquendi were meanwhile being captured and enslaved by an Enemy they had no idea was coming while the Noldor, Vanyar, and Teleri continued to sleep and eat and rule their respective realms, wringing their hands over something that was done and over with.

And the Valar did nothing.

They had to have known. Damn it all, it had been Manwë who told them that they did not need to fear anymore because Moringotto had fled to the other side of the Sea. And what, the Valar did not know or even guess just what Moringotto might _do_ when on the other side of that Sea? Sure, the Amaneldi did not need to worry, but the Moriquendi evidently did. Blessed stars, they had to have known, and even knowing it…they did nothing?

 _Who could be so cold?_

Makalaurë's words beside that mountain stream sprung to the forefront of his mind, but he had to shake it off. No. No, there had to be an explanation. As that Orc-speaker had so smugly attested; finite mind compared to an infinite being. There had to be something he was missing, something he was unaware of that would explain why the Valar had done and were doing absolutely _nothing_ while their innocent and blissfully ignorant Moriquendi kin were being enthralled by their damned Brother!

 _Who could have so merciless a heart?_

Maitimo released a shuddering breath. Just no. There had to be something he was missing. There just had to be.

He startled at a pebble striking his forehead.

" _Belain nin alio_ , Lachend, what! Why you look at me like that?"

Maitimo stared at Múlamudas in mild surprise, glancing down at his feet to see that it was indeed a pebble that had assaulted him. Múlamudas was glaring at him, but while irritation was positively radiating off his tense frame, there was fear in his eyes. He had brought his knees up to his chest and pushed himself back along the wall to the carrier, which was now tilting over precariously and would likely spill its contents if Múlamudas pushed against it one more time.

He gave Múlamudas a reassuring shake of his head, or what he thought was a reassuring shake of his head. "Nothing."

Múlamudas hardly looked convinced and did not relent in his glare, though he did shuffle out of the half-ball he had curled into, guardedly stretching his legs out again and tugging on that ridiculous loose thread. Maitimo turned his back to him, starting back down the tunnel as he wondered with a sense of alarm just how much more time he could afford to waste to return to the smithy before the horn blew. Probably not a lot.

There was a noise behind him, something that sounded like a huff or scoff. But when he spun back around to glare at Múlamudas, he was not expecting the Moriquendë's face to be bitter. "What?"

"Nothing," he mumbled as he averted his eyes to his lap, though they returned to Maitimo quickly enough.

Maitimo almost snapped at him. But it only took a fleeting observation of Múlamudas' expression before he understood, and any words he had intended to say died in his throat as a sudden wave of pity for the Elf briefly washed over him. Along with that incessant Moriquendi stare they all shared for him, Múlamudas seemed incapable of resisting whatever craving he had to run his eyes over Maitimo's body, which he was now doing again. Maitimo watched as the Elf trailed his gaze back and forth across his chest and arms, down his legs and to his feet especially. His scrutiny did not carry that perverted gleam that the Orc-speaker's had, but rather longing. An intense longing. It was not that difficult to guess just what that envious look on his face was all about that Múlamudas was trying and failing to hide. And Maitimo had no idea how to respond to it without aggravating Múlamudas again.

He turned around again and kept walking, using the wall as a brace.

"Is your hair real?"

Maitimo stumbled to a halt, looking over his shoulder with no little disbelief. He twisted his jaw, staring. "Yes?"

"Oh. Fine, then."

Maitimo blinked. He opened his mouth to speak but abruptly shut it, whipping around to finally hobble off and this time, not stopping. He did not have the time for this.

The tunnel seemed longer this time around, particularly when he entered the plunging darkness again. But he listened for the distinct sounds of the smithy – Low Smithy, apparently – and was relieved with every moment he did not hear the signature noises that came with smelters and bloom. And the horn had yet to blow, so that–

Maitimo faltered. He glowered at the empty air.

Great. _Great!_ He now really wanted to bang his head against a wall. Just great! He had wanted to ask Múlamudas just _why_ Moriquendi were even in this Angamando to begin with! What in all of Arda had happened in the first place to see them here! With a short nod of resolve and no little exasperation, he spun on his foot and headed back. But he stopped before completing two lumbering steps, hesitating. And then deflating. Because curse it all, he could not go back now. It was foolhardy enough to chance sneaking into the tunnel when he did, let alone chance going back when the horn was sure to blow at any time now, and he still had no desire to know what would come if caught being where he was not supposed to be, not when the Orc-speaker could evidently be summoned out of thin air. It was probably just as well, though, because right now, he did not want to see Múlamudas again.

But when he finally made it to the opening of the crevice, he was not expecting a group of Moriquendi to be huddled around the tunnel's entrance.

They all looked up at him from where they sat, all silent and gazes expectant, but Maitimo was flabbergasted. Had they been waiting for him? Considering that his two smelter partners were among the group of ten (at minimum), it seemed likely. Though he supposed he should be grateful. Their being gathered at the mouth of the tunnel made it easier for him to slink down and join their little group without any of the Orcs being the wiser, which was precisely what he did.

He was still adjusting himself into a more comfortable position when third-Elf leaned forward from where he sat cross-legged, shooting Maitimo a questioning look. "Agarfannenodh an Múlamudas?"

Maitimo glanced at him with a quick glare of exasperation but nodded in the end. He heard Múlamudas' name. He figured that was enough to answer to.

And it was apparently enough for third-Elf because he inclined back, seeming satisfied. One of the other Elves leaned over and wordlessly took the sack of ore from his hand, twisting around to toss it towards the double-shafted carrier, skin and all. Maitimo opened his mouth to somehow convey his gratitude, but all the Elves were looking at him again. Though whether because staring was a favored pastime of theirs or because they waited for him to speak, he had no idea. Maitimo grew still, eyes moving between each of them.

By Aulë, just what was it with these Moriquendi?

* * *

 _Aulë á alyanyë_ : "Aulë, help me"  
 _ló quanda melehtë Valaiva_ : "by all the Valar's might"


	22. Foggy Words

.

 **Chapter 22:** **  
** **Foggy Words**

Yánadur glanced up as he rummaged around in his rucksack, searching the immediate area again. Still no Makalaurë. Or any son of Fëanáro. Or maybe he should stop expecting them to materialize into the air when they did not even know he was looking for one of them.

"Ah!" He bit off a curse as he jammed his finger against something very solid at the rucksack's bottom. He yanked his hand out and flexed his fingers several times. Wait, that might have been an inkwell. He shifted on his knees and dove back in, pushing through the various items and clothing more thoroughly to find the bottom.

A soft chuckle floated over from his right. "Tent before writing, Yánadur," Nyellewen called with a mild hint of exasperation.

Yánadur glanced at his wife, taking note of the humored sparkle in her eyes before pointedly looking down at her lap where she was sorting through her many needles instead of refolding the blankets, which were scattered haphazardly around her feet with one thrown over her knees. He slowly lifted his eyes back to hers, quirking an eyebrow and lightly pursing his lips as he responded with a pointed stare.

The corner of her mouth twitched. "Quiet," she grumbled, reaching down to pull another blanket up on her lap.

Yánadur chuckled and returned his attention to the rucksack, reaching for the nethermost corners. "There is no need to hurry. We are only to construct a lean-to, remember?"

She tossed the folded blanket aside and snatched up another one, shaking off bits of grass. "Yes, but it will still take time."

"Not too much," Yánadur demurred, finally yanking out the inkwell with a disgruntled grunt. He inspected it briefly, ensuring the seal had not in any way become dislodged before setting it aside, delving back in for the other one he knew was down there. "It is a simple structure, and you heard everything Makalaurë said regarding the encampment. Establishing a more permanent organization of the Host will most assuredly see the two of us moving elsewhere. I know I hold no desire to erect a more stable shelter only to dismantle it again."

"When will that be?"

"I do not know." Yánadur looked up again from where he crouched, this time inspecting the fog as he peered around. He gave an uncertain roll of his shoulders. "Mayhap after the fog dissipates." If it ever did. Instead of dispersing, the fog had thickened and surpassed the heights of trees. Yánadur at first assumed the fog had only accumulated along the Grey Fields on the other side of the river, but he later reflected how foolish it was to assume such a thing when that tempest had assaulted them just as mightily on this side. Even after a subsequent month, the turf was still saturated with moisture, lightly dampening the knees of his leggings. "Surely after. No such rearranging can occur when we cannot see even a pole into the distance." He knew the measurement was an exaggeration, but the fog's density was solid enough as to stave off all visibility beyond fifty paces. He could make out clusters of tents and lean-tos in the vicinity, many Elves ambling back and forth to do whatever they did, even the wisps of wood-smoke from campfires. And what he could not see he could hear all around him, from the overlapping exchanges of Quenya to the ruckus of camping to the Lament again being uplifted by varying voices. He even heard the neighing of horses somewhere off to his left, which indicated that the herd of horses had to be quite near. But that was the extent of his understanding. He could not even determine where in the encampment he and his wife were, only that they were in one of the immediate quadrants of Fëanáro's banner, which had supposedly been hammered into the ground at the encampment's center. He returned to his rucksack, halfheartedly pushing items around. "It will clear in a day or three. A little fog never hurt."

"I know. But folk walking through this way will lay sight on a tent long before they see you and I sleeping on the–" Her words' ending was abrupt. "Laiquisyar is coming."

Yánadur looked up, following her gaze off to the right. Lord Laiquisyar was indeed coming, emerging from the fog with a sureness to his step that said he was not just passing through. And as his searching eyes met Yánadur's, it was confirmed when he suddenly hastened his walk towards them. Yánadur just stopped himself from shaking his head. The sight of the Elf-lord was still an oddity, what with him in a dust-ridden cloak and weathered boots instead of regal robes or silken brocades fastened with silver clasps. Yánadur rose to his feet, brushing off his leggings as he gave a deep nod. "My lord."

Laiquisyar returned it. "Master." He gave Nyellewen a brief grin and nodded again. "Mistress." He looked back at Yánadur. "A quiet word, if you will?"

Eyebrows slightly arching, Yánadur spared a brief glance towards Nyellewen before gesturing off to his right. Laiquisyar followed as he led him a short distance away. "What need you, my lord?"

Laiquisyar peered around at the fog and loitering Elves, but it was a fleeting glance. "Might you deliver a message for me to Makalaurë?"

Yánadur regarded him more sharply but gave a slight shrug. "Well, I would not refuse, but why can you not?"

Laiquisyar made a mild face of chagrin. "I cannot find him. He bounces all over the encampment. I enquire after his location and arrive at one place a person bid me go only to be informed he is elsewhere." His lips pressed into a tight smile. "All it has accomplished me thus far is losing myself four times now in this fog."

"Yet you found me?"

"By happenstance. I was walking onward to another place his Highness allegedly is."

Yánadur stared and gave a slight, wondrous shake of his head, marveling that the Elf-lord could navigate this encampment with any measure of success at all. "Well, I look for him myself and can claim no better success of the task, but if I come to him first, certainly. What is your message?"

"Only that I must speak with him without delay. I will await his summons, but I have received a fair number of complaints and they need to be addressed."

Yánadur's eyebrows shot up. "Complaints? If they are in response to splitting what remains of the tents' material, Makalaurë already knows. It is fine with me to live with a lean-to, but even I confessed to him to being ill sanguine with giving canvas away, particularly after my wife underwent all that effort to plait it. No one is delighted, including Makalaurë."

Laiquisyar was shaking his head before he even finished, looking away as he let out a stiff sigh. "This has naught to do with the tents, Master Yánadur. Though since you mention it, I would remind you that the decision with the canvas was never set in stone. It was but a suggestion since a third of the Host is without lodgings."

Yánadur regarded him more seriously. "Then what for are these complaints if not the tents? Tell me not people are grumbling about the fog."

Laiquisyar's brow puckered as he twisted around to look over his shoulder, but then he grabbed Yánadur's arm and guided him a few steps further away. He lowered his voice, leaning in close enough to invade his personal space. "Yánadur, several people have come to me requesting that the shields not be buried."

"What? Why?"

"I know not fully the reason. Nor do I know if they have taken the plaint to one of our princes, and nor do I know when Makalaurë plans to even do it. But he needs to be made aware of this if the families have not addressed him about it."

"But why would they protest the burial? It is being prepared for as we speak. Surely they explained themselves?"

Laiquisyar gestured helplessly, looking slightly discomfited. "If it can be named a reason. I cannot really say, Yánadur. Several families spoke of not wanting this place to be their departed's final resting ground if we are to relocate again. That they would rather wait to honor them for when the Host is more permanently settled, you understand?"

"Wait now, my lord. Relocate again? What is this you speak of? We are settling on these fields. You know it was decided to reside here. The Host knows it."

"I know, Yánadur, I know. You need not retell it to me. I did as Makalaurë's runners relayed and all of the Host was called to heed him before his banner crossed over the river. But the families I speak of seemed —" He hesitated. "— unconvinced of the plan to establish our home here. They said no words to that effect, but it was the impression I gained and his Highness needs to be informed. So…." He lifted his eyebrows in question. "Know you his whereabouts? I have searched for well over two hours now."

Yánadur gestured the question away impatiently, his frown deepening into something sharper and even alarmed. "My lord, are you saying some people believe that we will be migrating south? Is that what this is about? I know you to be a lord of eloquence, but pray spare me it now."

"Truly, I do not know. I speak honestly, Loremaster. But regardless of what I speak or conclude, the princes need to be informed of the families' appeals. It may be Makalaurë will talk with them and proceed on anyway with burying the shields, but I think he would take what they say into account."

"There would –" Yánadur faltered, eyes flicking over Laiquisyar's shoulder where he caught sight of a familiar face newly emerging from the fog. It was Vëantur and for a moment Yánadur thought he might be just ambling around, which was possible since this speck of land was in the confines of Fëanáro's banner. But he moved with a sure-footed step directly towards them and Yánadur hesitated further. He looked back at Laiquisyar and gave an unobtrusive bow of his head. "I shall relay it to Makalaurë if I see him, or refer you on the matter since he will most certainly seek to speak with you directly on this. But Commander Vëantur comes, so I will bid you farewell if it is your will that passersby not know of that particular plaint."

Laiquisyar lifted his eyebrows and glanced behind him, moving a step or two to the side as Vëantur came nearer. He tossed Yánadur a meager smile. "Preferably yes." He turned to Vëantur, dipping his head. "Well met, Commander."

Vëantur returned the nod with a weary one of his own. "My lord. Yánadur." Yánadur resisted the temptation to raise his eyebrows at the sight of seeing the Commander finally without any armor or armaments strapped to his robust frame. Not even the customary dirk that every warrior now rarely went without, that was currently buckled even to his own belt. Vëantur either did not notice Yánadur's reaction or ignored it all together as he addressed Laiquisyar, gesturing behind him from the way he came. "Prince Makalaurë is looking for you, my lord."

Exasperation flickered in Laiquisyar's expression before he closed it off, a wry grin twisting his lips as he exchanged a look with Yánadur that was at a cross between aggravated and humored. "Where is he?"

"The gardens." Vëantur gestured behind him again. "For his own banner. The third quadrant, I think. Or second? He is in his banner regardless and should still be there. He just arrived from Tyelkormo's. I crossed him on the way."

Yánadur's smile towards Laiquisyar was more genuine this time, touched with a hint of drollness. "Well, I would fain say Vëantur's account has profited you more than I, my lord. I trust you need none of my assistance anymore?"

Laiquisyar harrumphed dryly. "For now, you mean to say. The way my hunt for him has progressed, he will have left the gardens come the time I arrive." He turned on his heel and left the two of them, giving a nod towards Nyellewen as he passed her. "Mistress, a pleasure."

She angled her eyes up at his address, eyebrows lifting as she hastily gave an awkward bow from where she sat with multiple materials now piled in her lap. She looked at Yánadur, brows hiking up further in question. He gave a short, dismissive shake of his head. He turned back to Vëantur and speared him with a lighthearted glare, cocking his head to the side. "Does Makalaurë truly search for Laiquisyar or merely said you so to send him away?"

Vëantur tossed a hurried, almost discreet glance in Nyellewen's direction before grabbing Yánadur's arm in a far fiercer grip than Laiquisyar had and pulled him even further away. "We have a problem."

Yánadur hummed. "Your astuteness fails you if you have finally realized that."

He clenched Yánadur's arm even harder and gave him a brief, stern shake, his expression darkening. "Withhold your jests, Yánadur. This is serious."

Yánadur sighed. "I know, Vëantur, so pray release my poor arm. Laiquisyar just told me."

Vëantur let go, brow faintly creasing. "How came he to know? He was not there."

"Was not– You speak not of the shields?"

"What about the shields?"

Yánadur frowned, looking between Vëantur's eyes but seeing nothing but genuine confusion there. He hesitated, shifting back a small step. "What problem have we, Vëantur?"

Vëantur slid his eyes away, giving a small, reluctant shake of his head. "It concerns Maitimo's banner. I went and spoke to them. In Sornion's place, that is. I know –"

"How did I not hear of it? That is no small gathering."

"The laurel branch is arranged along the east-northeast right now, so Maitimo's people did not exactly have to congregate. I know I had no real right to address them, but after Fëanáro's sons I know not who is properly next in authority except you and me as commanders."

"Yes, yes. Go on."

"Well, Maitimo's people are unhappy, to say the least."

Yánadur regarded him skeptically and not a bit grimly. "A reality even one half drunk can glean. What say you, Vëantur? That Maitimo's people are forlorn when that is now foreseeably the longstanding state of his banner? That particular _problem_ is nothing new."

"No. I mean rather that they are displeased with their Highnesses. Right now. With their decision to forsake Maitimo to Moringotto. I went to them to gather their numbers – Makalaurë is collecting them for Curufinwë to figure as he and Fëanáro did for the first encampment," he added. "But Fëanáro assigned me that duty as his Second, so I assumed the same was bidden of Sornion. Yet Maitimo's banner would not spare my ear when I addressed them. I do not fault them for their discontent, mistake me not, but Makalaurë needs to be aware of it."

Yánadur stared at him uncertainly as he lapsed into silence, his frown deepening, and he opened his mouth to question just what it was the Commander was attempting to say without actually saying it. Sudden realization swept over him. "Wait now, you bring this to me so that _I_ may tell Makalaurë?" he demanded in barely curbed incredulity. "Really? I thought you above such guile, Vëantur. Valar, from what I know of you, I believed you not even capable of it."

Anger flashed in Vëantur's eyes as he gave a sharp shake of his head, looking mildly uncomfortable. "It is no matter of guile, Yánadur. I come for your ear, your perspective as well, and yes, I confess, to ask you to say this to Makalaurë. But not out of guile," he insisted tetchily. The uneasiness in his face grew and he gestured openly, as though it were obvious. "You know him, know all of them better than I do and I know not what to conclude with this, know not what to do, and sweet Elentári, I hardly know how to bring such a thing to Makalaurë, doubly so when I know I may be seeing something that is not there. Tirion's unrest still haunts me and I fear to be predispositioned in my judgment of this. Valar, I cannot find it within myself to even fault Maitimo's banner for how they feel. They are bereft without Maitimo, leaderless without him or Sornion, and it was difficult when facing them not to sympathize with how Makalaurë's decision affected them."

Yánadur narrowed his eyes. "I thought you supported Makalaurë's decision."

"I do. But that does not mean I cannot empathize. If it were Fëanáro in Maitimo's place…." He trailed off with a soft sigh, looking suddenly tired and the weariness tempered the stiff set to his shoulders. He looked at Yánadur less harshly, almost in commiseration. "Maitimo is no less than Fëanáro to me, but there is a sea of difference that cannot be crossed between the two when compared, Yánadur. Maitimo still lives and his people's fealty to him is rearing its head. Its loud head."

Yánadur glared at him in mounting unease. "What then do you say? They mean to actually defy Makalaurë?"

"No." Vëantur faltered, his expression shifting with a hesitance that was completely unbecoming of him. "I do not know. No one suggested anything of the sort, but….Valar, just while seeing the lot of them, it was made plain to me just how massive Maitimo's following is, even more so now since many of those following Fëanáro migrated to his banner as liege. Which also made me realize that I very much need to learn what that spells for me as Fëanáro's Second, for all of us who marched under his Star."

"Then what problem is there exactly? No one can fault Maitimo's people their displeasure without being named a hypocrite, but Fëanáro's following is even larger than Maitimo's and you speak no ill of them."

"Because the fire of Maitimo's banner is still burning, Yánadur," he snapped, expression darkening with frustration again. "Fëanáro's is not. Do not act the charlatan with me by feigning some cold disinterest at their response to the princes' decision, not when all who know of your own accord with Fëanáro's House can guess the place Maitimo holds in your heart. The people of my sire's banner, they are quiet. Resigned. Many moved themselves to Maitimo's banner even though they still congregate before Fëanáro's, but now Maitimo is gone too. Along with Sornion. In that vein, they are more fractured than my sire's banner being without its liege and Second, despite it being lesser in number."

Yánadur dithered but then gave a grudging nod. "True. But do you –"

"Vëantur!"

They spun around, finding themselves faced with a swiftly approaching Carnistir. Yánadur let out a huff of air. Finally, he may speak with one of them! He almost voiced the sentiment aloud, but Carnistir's unmistakably irked demeanor kept him quiet. His attire was just as relaxed as Vëantur's, even more with how he wore only a billowing white shirt and dark leggings, but by the hassled expression on his face, he was more strung up than the Commander was. The Commander whom Carnistir now regarded with a look that was almost a glare, though the confusion that crinkled Carnistir's brow stopped it from being anything more than an intense stare. "Did you collect Maitimo's numbers?"

Vëantur frowned, shoulders stiffening. "Yes," he answered cautiously.

Carnistir gave a nod as he came to a halt, the confusion clearing and the intensity of the stare wilting away. "So they informed me when I went to do it myself. Give them to me before you retire, as well as my father's. Or to my Second if you cannot find me."

Vëantur's eyebrows rose. "Halatiron received the healer's release?"

Carnistir nodded. "He is on his feet, though not wholly hale, so he will not take up all the duties as my Second just yet. You know where my banner is?" Vëantur nodded. "Good, then. And would both of– What face is that, Yánadur?" Carnistir quirked at eyebrow at the steaming exasperation Yánadur failed to mask then and there.

Yánadur pulled a sullen look. "Nothing," he grumbled. "I just seem to be the only one who cannot navigate the encampment in this fog."

Carnistir exchanged a fleeting glance with Vëantur, a glimmer of what might have been amusement sparking in his eye, but it was there and gone all too quickly. "It helps if you just walk it, you know. Once you identify the banners' sites, it is simpler. But the both of you search out your Captains and see them informed of the meeting on the morrow. Safety is paramount and we need to organize the scouting and rotation of sentries."

"Captains only from the ranks of the Noldohossë?" Yánadur asked.

"For now, yes, though the lords of the Host will be present. Numbers to me, Vëantur," he reminded distractedly as he turned away. Yánadur opened his mouth to call him back and he even heard Vëantur draw in a breath at the same time, but Carnistir only went a few steps before he spun back around, pointing at Yánadur and looking decidedly chagrined. "And Yánadur," he added after a moment of hesitation, and he could not quite meet Yánadur's eyes as discomfort visibly grew. "The conversation we had before Moringotto's messenger came?" He waved his hand. "Forget it happened. Please?"

Yánadur resisted a small smile. "Forgotten, young one."

Carnistir narrowed his eyes at the quirk of his mouth but gave a single nod, turning back around. Yánadur bit off a curse. "Carnistir!" he called.

"Highness!" said Vëantur at the same time.

Yánadur looked over at him, mildly curious as to just what the Commander wanted. Carnistir slowly spun back around on his heel, his dark eyes swiveling impatiently between them before he nodded at Vëantur. "What?"

Vëantur shot a questioning look at Yánadur but plowed on. "May I acquire an audience with Makalaurë, Highness? I have a suggestion concerning the Seconds. I do not know when he might have an hour free, so I can await a summons."

Carnistir stared at him in no little bewilderment, but then the stressful lines of his face noticeably eased as his eyes softened. He almost seemed to deflate a little bit, his shoulders relaxing, which Yánadur could not make sense of since faint traces of exasperation made their way into the shrewd look he was giving Vëantur. "You are still my sire's Second, Vëantur," he said solemnly. He lowered his head, jaw clenching as his voice grew more subdued. "Though Atar is now gone and any authority of your position as his Second with him, we intend not to dishonor his memory by forgetting that. You still have leave to approach us as you will."

Vëantur was silent, his face an unreadable mask, but his dark eyes shined with a disconcerting light as he nodded his head only once in response to whatever he took from what Carnistir said. But the single nod was evidently enough for Carnistir because he turned to Yánadur. He waited with an air of expectation and then gestured openly when Yánadur did not so much as open his mouth. "Yes?"

Yánadur hesitated further, ignoring Vëantur's gaze that he could now feel burning into him like an iron brand, but ignoring even more the very acute sensation of discomfort that surged through his chest as he reached into the pocket inside his jerkin. He withdrew the broken parcel of hair with a stiff jerk of his hand and held it out towards Carnistir, unable to meet the prince's eyes and whatever look might be in them. He stared into empty air, swallowing thickly. "Take this from me, Carnistir. I will not bear it another day."

Though roughly spoken, his voice was unyielding and he did not lower his hand. He still could not summon the courage to turn up his eyes, and part of his mind chided him for it, but neither he nor Vëantur spoke. He waited, allowing the silence to grow awkward and intense, but then he felt Carnistir close the small gap between them and take hold of the parcel. He did not snatch it away, but he was not calm about it either. Yánadur looked up to watch Carnistir's back as the dark-haired Elf hurried away with as swift a gate as he came, disappearing into the fog. He resisted a sigh but nonetheless relished the relief at no longer feeling that stiff bundle press against his ribcage.

"The time Carnistir allocates to conversation grows shorter by the day," Vëantur commented idly. He raised an eyebrow at Yánadur, eyes inquisitive. "What discussion spoke he of? What happened?"

Yánadur waved the question away. "Nothing." He then reached out and smacked Vëantur's shoulder none too lightly, earning a surprised and baffled look from him. He glared back just as stringently. "Why did you not say anything?" he demanded. "Now was as ripe a time as any to express your concern for Maitimo's banner."

Vëantur let out a resigned sigh. "Because I know not if it is a legitimate concern to express. Being unhappy is not grounds for a problem, Yánadur. If it were, then the whole Host is guilty of being a problem. But there are so many of them under the laurel branch and frankly, all of them combined with those of Fëanáro's Star is like having a bear with a sore head ambling around the encampment. Actually, I think I would prefer a bear with a sore head. It would be easier to face." He raised his eyebrows at Yánadur expectantly. "So, will you tell him?"

Yánadur grimaced, the indecision plain on his face as he regarded the Commander reluctantly. "It is not within me to withhold any pertinent information regarding the Host, but what exactly am I to tell him when –"

He was interrupted by the mellow-pitched blowing of a pipe. He spun around in slight disbelief to look at his wife, who had abandoned the cloths on her lap and was now playing a melodic, cheery tune on her time-weathered gemshorn. Yánadur felt a small, sad smile touch his mouth as he recognized the children's lullaby, a smile that grew into something more humored as he looked at Nyellewen pointedly. She held his gaze, her agile fingers never slowing or faltering as they moved along the seven holes, and Yánadur gained the impression that if she had not been preoccupied with blowing into the instrument, he would have felt her meaningful glare at full force. He nodded his understanding at the silent message, turning back to Vëantur as she kept on playing.

Genuine amusement stubbornly turned up the sides of his mouth even further when he saw Vëantur regarding his wife with complete perplexity, shooting quick, questioning glances his way. "She can hear us," he explained. But any gaiety left as he consciously lowered his voice. "But really, what am I to tell Makalaurë when everything you say may only make smoke instead of anything with real substance? Even you express doubt to there being any truth in it. And to be truthful, Vëantur, I cannot believe the Host would yield to such division and strife. We are stronger than that, above it. Valar, it was that passion of the Host's fire and ambition that carried us across the Sea and to these fields."

Vëantur looked at him somberly, a bitter set to his expression. "All due respect, Yánadur, I think the fire of the Host died when Fëanáro did."

Yánadur frowned, shaking his head. "That is not true."

"Is it not?" he retorted skeptically. "We are all here because Fëanáro revealed to us how wondrous Endórë is. Without his fire lit under us, I doubt we would be standing here having this conversation. Our people would have dreamed and yearned from afar, yes, but would never have stepped foot from the white streets of Tirion."

Yánadur did not respond to that, had no response if he was honest with himself, and he finally relented with a brief sigh, his shoulders dropping. "Very well. I will bring it to him, or try to."

"Thank you," Vëantur said in clear relief. "I dread the thought of starting such a conversation, but…."

Yánadur shrugged it off. "I may as well. I need to speak with him, as it is."

A new, curious light entered his eyes. "Oh? Is all well?"

Yánadur grunted in consideration and crinkled up his face, looking away into the fog. "I believe so. I have just been meditating on something he said about their Oath."

"What of it?"

"Well…." Yánadur wavered at the insistence in Vëantur's visage but mentally kicked himself, rolling his eyes at his own hesitance. "Everything that has unfolded this past month suggests that Maitimo and I were correct in what we postulated in the fissure. You remember, no? That Moringotto would rather see us gone from Endórë than engage us in war?" Vëantur nodded. "Makalaurë concurs, but the day Moringotto's messenger came? When you came to where we sat on the sward? Before you did, I enquired of Makalaurë what he could want of Maitimo, why he does all this at all. I still believe it to be principally true that it was a shrewdly wrought design to see his will accomplished without surrendering a Jewel, in that Maitimo is the real means of appeasement. That he will be victorious with all three Silmarils in the end. Crowned by them, evidently," Yánadur added morbidly, mouth twisting down. "But with Maitimo –"

"Valar, Yánadur," he uttered in a harsh undertone as he took a step closer, face shadowed with grave concern. "Are you planning to open the debate anew if we should depart from Hísilómë or not?"

Yánadur lifted an eyebrow. "Last I recall, there never was a debate."

Vëantur nodded. "There was not. But Yánadur, this is a mess right now with Maitimo's banner alone. Do not misunderstand me, for I am not saying you should keep silent, but just have prudence in whom you choose not to keep silent with. You see it as well as I how people are becoming somewhat desperate for some manner of an explanation or resolution to all this. We cannot afford a riot on our hands if this spirals out of whatever control is still holding the Host together."

Laiquisyar's side of their conversation knocked meaningfully on his conscience, but Yánadur shoved it down, lifting up a hand to stop Vëantur's talk. "Three points of contention I now hold with you. One, you did not let me finish. Two, I never said I was going to reopen a debate that never happened. And three, what I was attempting to say I only intended to discuss first with Makalaurë. But this reticence of yours – yes, reticence! It is unlike you. Always you are strategizing and endeavoring to find a solution to the problem. Since when do you act so charry with whom to speak about something unpleasant?"

"I said not you should tell no one, just to be careful in whom you tell, whatever it is you intend to say. And I apologize for interrupting. What you said even now goes to make me rethink several things, but –"

"Then why do you bid me keep even that quiet?"

"Because any such speculation still provides no answer as to why he took Maitimo and only him." Yánadur could hear the frustration in his voice and the frown that now etched its way into Vëantur's brow only made it more pronounced as he spared a brief glance towards Nyellewen again. He lowered his voice even more. "If leverage was Moringotto's objective during this whole thing to _really_ give us incentive to depart, any person with half a brain would have kept the rest of those Elves alive. Valar, could you imagine the weight those fallen Elves' families and friends would have put on Makalaurë's shoulders had they been held hostage? But instead, Moringotto killed them. Instead he most assuredly gave their families all the more reason to fight this war against him instead of giving them an incentive to do as he tells us to do. So why only Maitimo?"

Yánadur was nodding, somewhat blearily. "I know, I know. Makalaurë and I already discussed this."

"And I with Tyelkormo and Curufinwë. I mean not to repeat any discourse you held with the prince, but yes. The incentive to send us away is probably true. In this I have no qualm believing you and Maitimo were correct in such speculation, but there is something unseen to our eye, Yánadur. Something fails to add up as to why he wants Maitimo."

"And what do you think?"

Vëantur opened his mouth but paused, lowering his head with a small shake. "I do not know, but just be careful. That is all. Regardless of what we say, the Host is going nowhere, the princes the least of them. Their Oath keeps them here and frankly, no pleasure lies within me to go elsewhere either. Even if it is true that Moringotto solely aims to see us gone, there is not by any star I would swear to believe he would just let Maitimo go. Why would he? Why, when he could use him as leverage for something else against us, particularly if we gave into it this first occasion and thus prove to Moringotto that using Maitimo as a bartering token actually works? He owes us nothing and there are none to hold him to his word."

Yánadur stared at him for a long moment, eyes darkening as they slipped away. "I had not thought of it in that regard. But you are right. There is nothing to suggest Moringotto would not push another bargain if he is successful with this one."

Vëantur shrugged. "Or I am wrong. Mine is one supposition among many."

"Have you told one of them of this?"

Vëantur shrugged again, more dismissively this time. "Why trouble them with something that would amount to nothing? There is nothing to support it and the Host is near enough to a state of upheaval. And we are here to stay in the Grey Fields, so why aim to bring forth fire from a spark?" Vëantur turned to retreat back the way he came, appearing both more vexed and sapped by their conversation than when he first arrived. "With your pardon, I should retrieve those numbers for Carnistir before I forget. Or before he disappears."

Yánadur reached out, grabbing his arm and hauling him back. "Hold now, Vëantur. Their Oath is what I intended to talk about before you interrupted."

Vëantur absently brushed down the crinkles in his jerkin where he had gripped it. "Ah yes, their Oath. What does it have to do with this?"

"Well…." Yánadur swiveled his eyes off to his left, discomfited. "Perhaps nothing. Part of me feels it to be a foolish query, but believe you Moringotto knows of their Oath?"

Vëantur leaned away, clearly taken aback. "No. How could he?"

Yánadur nodded, his brow furrowing. "So I thought also."

The bemusement grew. "Where came that question from?"

"Nowhere, really. As I said, it was but something Makalaurë said, or inferred, rather. Just another tenuous supposition among many, so do not trouble yourself with it."

"Why? What spoke he?"

"Well, it was only a thing he mentioned in passing. We were discussing the bat's message, why he felt prone to distrust it, and Makalaurë said that Moringotto knew they are to remain here because of their Oath. It led me to since wonder what difference it would make if Moringotto knows of their Oath or not, if it would make any difference at all."

"A good question, but again, how could he? Particularly when he goes unaware we are even in exile?" Vëantur nodded at Yánadur's quizzical frown. "Despite the conditions, both messengers of Moringotto bid us return chiefly unto Eldamar. Why would he demand that of us twice over if he knows we are unable to?"

"Hm." The hum was not anything cynical, but Yánadur still considered him uncertainly, demurring with a roll of one shoulder. "I suppose so, though I can little fathom one such as Moringotto being so grossly misinformed. Yet you are right about his messengers. I purposed to enquire Makalaurë about it, but now perhaps I should just let it be."

"I am not saying to censure yourself, only that Makalaurë may have simply spoken without full awareness of what he said. Who can say? He might just retract the suggestion if you make mention of it." He turned to walk away again, looking back at Yánadur one more time with raised eyebrows. "You will inform Makalaurë?"

Yánadur raised his eyes to the sky. "Yes!"

"Thank you." He headed off, giving Nyellewen a relaxed salutation as he passed her, to which she returned with a half bow that was made awkward by the gemshorn's hampering. But she maintained the rhythm, not stopping her blowing until Yánadur trailed back over to her side. He lowered himself alongside his rucksack once more, unfolding a collapsible stool to sit on instead of kneeling. He sighed, leaning on his knees as he tossed a wry glance towards his wife. "Not particularly subtle, were you?"

She shrugged, wiping off the mouthpiece with her frock. "It was the first thing to come to mind short of yelling at you to lower your voices." She looked to her left, squinting as she peered into the fog to where Vëantur had disappeared. She turned back to Yánadur, eyebrows lightly peaked together as she searched his gaze. She hesitated, glancing to her left again. "Is everything well?"

Yánadur evaded her gaze. He absently pursed his lips, staring down at the lopsided pile of blankets between them, momentarily humored by the lack of care she paid to their folds. "I do not know." He raised his eyes up to hers, shaking his head with a spent sigh. "I just do not know anymore."

O = O = O

Makalaurë ran his thumb over the broad leaf of the cabbage shoots, staring at its deep pigmentation in slight amazement. He leaned back, resting his hands on the hull of the wagon as he slowly shook his head at Sinyalvë standing just off to the side. "Praise be to the obstinacy of plants, I think. It is a wonder the life the vegetation still lives with, despite all the circumstances that should have shriveled up their roots."

Sinyalvë hummed in consideration, not appearing as taken aback. "I will not complain. I have often found myself pondering since coming to Endórë how these Moriquendi live off the land, or rather how the land manages to thrive without the aid of Laurelin. Or how our own gardens did not die after the death of the Trees. Starlight is hardly enough, or so I have always thought."

"Well, I am certain the Valar achieved some longstanding method to see these dark lands flourish, mayhap even disclosed it to those who enquired. Perhaps the Moriquendi themselves know." He cocked his head, gaze traveling along the rows and rows of maturing buds and those so matured they were already flowering. And then his eyes moved up further and around to observe the many more carted gardens that surrounded the one he stood at. "I may be no gardener, but I think it is time to uproot these heads, as well as the rest of the foodstuff sprouting."

Sinyalvë turned towards him. "Already? What of the soil?"

Makalaurë waved the question away, still perusing the cultivated plants. "It will be in fine fettle. We will still survey the soil more thoroughly as we did east of the river, though more at leisure, I think. There is no reason to assume the Grey Fields will be any different on this side. Just start planting. They can always be uprooted again. And we need to see granaries built sooner than later, so there is no reason to delay."

"Granaries? We will begin to build actual structures, then?"

Makalaurë shook his head. "Only granaries for now. The construction of more permanent housings will be discussed at the next council, but do not raise your hopes too high. Such amenities are far off, and we will still long creak our shoes on timber floors before even plain masonry."

The Elf-lord grunted. "A pity. I know many would rather proceed on with finally building their own lodgings than plait more canvas. We have housed ourselves in naught but tents since our coming to Endórë and I myself do not deny craving the sight of solid walls again. I often left Tirion to hunt with my grandchildren, so I have never minded a long duration of camping, but now I think I loathe its perpetuity."

"Priorities, my lord. And food comes before comfort. Sowing the fields for cropping is our next priority."

"How many granaries? Surely not for all the gardens of the Host. It would be impossible to build so many."

"Of course not. They will be only for the communal gardens, just as it was in Tirion. Each person is responsible for the health of their own garden." He fell silent, a slight frown creasing his forehead as he calculated the many numbers with each banner. But he shook his head again with a small wince. "It is too soon to determine until all the numbers of the banners are gathered. We can deliberate a more accurate number then, but just start building them. I would rather have spare granaries readied to be filled than a shortage of them, not that such will happen. A number will long be determined before even five are constructed."

"Stilts or stones?"

Makalaurë made a face at him. "You really ask that? Stones, of course."

"I only ask because a substantial time will be spent in searching out that many rocks and then hauling them to whatever patch of land will be the granaries' foundations. And there is no guarantee we will find enough of those specific rocks considering how many granaries need to be built."

Makalaurë vacillated at that, eyes trailing away from Sinyalvë's gaze as he mulled over the words. "A fair point." He sighed. "Stilts, then. But only until the stones are acquired, granary by granary," he emphasized. "Stilts will not survive another storm akin to that one a month ago."

Sinyalvë frowned at him. "You anticipate another storm of that might?"

"Contingencies, Sinyalvë," he intoned meaningfully. "We should have begun devising plans for them long ago."

"True enough," he conceded. "What of the gardens, though? You called me here specifically for them."

"I want them readied to be uprooted and I am asking you to arrange it. Begin with my sire's banner; it is the largest in every regard and can be used as a model for the others. My brothers and I will deliberate the encampment's layout with the Council and implement it come the fog's dissipating, so we will know where to build the granaries then." He tossed a humorless grin towards Sinyalvë. "And regardless of the time to have passed, the soil is assuredly lush for planting after all that rain." He looked out at the expanse of tumbrils, gaze flicking between the many Elves and even children standing alongside their mothers loitering around their wooden hulls. He tapped his palms against the rim of the cart before him, stepping away. "Consult with the gardeners. If Laiquisyar comes, tell him I await him at my lodgings. He knows where they are."

Sinyalvë looked at him not a little sternly. He pressed his lips, gesturing at Makalaurë to wait. "If I may be so forward, Highness, Laiquisyar can answer you later. You need to rest. I can see the fatigue plain in your face."

Makalaurë leveled a steady look on him, allowing the silence to stretch for an uncomfortable amount of time, but Sinyalvë maintained his gaze with a grave one of his own. He canted up an eyebrow almost audaciously, his voice unmoved though not loutish. "I shall be in my tent, my lord. Pray relay it to Laiquisyar should you see him."

Sinyalvë stared at him for a long moment, almost looking as though he was ready to argue the point. But then he lowered his eyes, a flash of disappointment briefly appearing in them even as he gave Makalaurë an obsequious bow of his head. "As you say, Highness."

Makalaurë nodded in return and walked away before another word could be said.

 _To be continued_


End file.
